


Cloudy with a chance of pepperoni

by redux (sian22)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Author!Bucky, Avenger!Clint, Avengers Academy is a thing, Blowjobs, Brooklyn modern day, Clint Barton is a beautiful disaster, Clint's his neighbour, Deaf Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, Kelsey and Darcy are bff, Kid!Fic, Kissing, Lucky as matchmaker, Lucky is a pizza dog, M/M, Nat's his ex, and almost blows his chance at love, and chowhound, awesomedad!Bucky, because Fraction is the best, disgruntled neighbours to friends to ??, firsttime!Bucky, handjobs, mention of past traumatic accident, minor canon typical violence, non-canon compliant fuse of Comic and MCU, shared custody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:37:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7946575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian22/pseuds/redux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucky has always had a round.  Tuesdays it’s Mrs Miller for tollhouse cookies.  Thursdays its Mrs Anderson for scones.  Saturday’s its Mr. Neil’s for pizza.  It works, perfectly so far as his stomach is concerned, so why change a good thing when the house gets sold?  </p><p>Trouble is… the new owner Bucky Barnes has no idea why this damn dog keeps showing up at his front door.   And  why his elusive owner is so beguiling.</p><p>In which Bucky, newly divorced part-time single dad and author of the wildly popular Avengers Academy teen books, meets and falls for his sexy but enigmatically banged up neighbour.  Clint, as usual, has trouble admitting his feelings and that he isn’t actually working for the Mob.  Can Lucky help them see the truth before it is too late?  Dang humans..sometimes it takes a little physical persuasion to bring them together…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. new beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Confession time: I have never written these two before. I thank Amazon for the emergency delivery of My Life as Weapon and Little Hits and Mollynoble for her encouragement to get this rolling and work on the Winterhawk BB. 
> 
> shushup has created fabulous art for this story. You can find it here http://much-ado-about-mothing.tumblr.com/post/149947346261/my-part-of-the-winterhawk-big-bang-and attached to chapter 6. Go check her stuff out. It is awesome!!
> 
> Annafan and SallyExactly were fabulous and expert sounding boards. Hugs and confetti...Their critters and kudos made a huge huge difference. Monster thanks to Garotte8Goodnight for her clutch reading of late chapters as they dribbled in. Everything I've learned about funny comes from her and Anna.

The first time it happens Bucky is pretty chill. 

It’s mid-morning on a sunny Saturday when a yellow lab with a purple collar shows up at his front door.

“Woof!”

Hunh??  Was that a bark?  Bucky reluctantly puts down the box cutter and swears again at his paper cut.  The nice young woman who lives next door had waved and said _something_ about coming round with pie.  Could she be back already?   Man, he had expected a welcoming committee but pie an hour after the moving truck has left that must be some kind of record.

As he wends his way through the neat towers of piled boxes and haphazard furniture to the screen door, he rubs his brow worriedly.  Did she have a dog? And what was her name again? 

It is June.  New York is always hot in the summer but this year it’s sweltering before Independence Day and nary a breeze is moving the torpid air.  A drop of sweat is rolling down Bucky’s nape and he doesn’t feel ready for his first visitor.  The new house has air conditioning but he hadn’t planned on turning it on quite yet.  That _is_ kinda the whole point of having a screened front door.

He reaches for the latch and pulls it open gingerly.  It squeaks, loudly (WD40 might be a plan) and, nonplussed, he looks out, then down.

On the stoop he finds not a neighbour but a mutt.   Sitting placidly on his haunches and looking up expectantly.  

Puzzling.

Leaning out a little farther he checks up and down the street.  No one is in sight waiting with a casserole.   Or a leash and a doggy bag.  Hmmmm.   

“Woof!” 

The golden labrador is a little shaggy but obviously not a stray.  “Watcha want boy? Are you lost?  Got out of your yard?” 

The soft blond furry head tilts exactly as if the dog is listening.  “Woof!”  

The lab sits, tongue lolling, panting a little in the heat.  Maybe that is it.  

“Want some water?”   He goes back inside, rummages in a neatly labelled box for a cereal bowl and fills it with tepid tap water.  Sets it back down and waits. 

His visitor pauses, staring intently as his face, but then sighs and stands, slurping messily at the offering.  It takes Bucky a moment to realize what is different about the pooch.   It’s, no he (for that much is clear) is partly blind. His left eye is shut and it appears to be stuck that way.   The part of his brain that can’t stop collecting material thinks: I _wonder what his story is?_    

The lab sits back down, muzzle dripping, and whines and thumps his tail against the frayed door mat.  Another thing to replace Buck reminds himself as he bends down to check the silver tag winking on the collar, reaching slowly with his right so as not to freak the dog right out. (In his experience animals are a little wary of metal that can move.)

The bare basic oval reads “Lucky”.  There’s the name but no address.  Not helpful.   Can “Lucky” have come very far?  How well can a dog navigate without seeing properly?

“Woof!”  Lucky sure seems to want something from him but he has not idea just what…

Bucky shakes his head and shoves his dark forelock back in place.   “I don’t know what you want Lucky.  I don’t know where to take you home.” 

Perhaps he should ask the neighbour if she knows where Lucky’s from?  He ponders the embarrassment of hailing her without her name but decides doing his civic duty might be more important. 

He is just about to reach again and but before he can even get his fingers on the collar’s webbing Lucky bolts.

_Oh shit._

Bucky runs after him, reaches the street just as a skinny yellow tail turns the corner onto 14th Avenue.   Man that dog is fast!  By the time he hits the stop sign Lucky runs up to a slightly weather beaten Victorian clapboard pile and disappears through a gate.

Ok then. 

Lucky hadn’t far to go and at least he is safely home.  Buck heads back to his mountain of stuff to unpack and by the time he has unearthed his ipod dock has forgotten all about the unconventional welcome crowd.

 

 -----------------------------------------------------

 

The second time it happens it is exactly one week later.  

Bizarre.

Bucky is getting ready to head out.  He’d rather not leave with boxes everywhere but he has no choice:  he had not planned to move so soon but the house on 84th was a great price in exactly the neighbourhood he needed.  Dyker Heights is prized:  buses make it in to town in 30 minutes, the river is nearby and the Beach Park is a jewel.  Only issue was houses don’t turn over an awful lot: taking immediate closing was the clincher on the deal. There’s a reason not many people want to move before school term is out and it’s hella awkward for him too:  right between spring semester and the start of Philly Wizard World.   Precious fallow time when he would normally have time to write.  

 _Sigh_.   House’ll be worth it in the end.  For Kels.

He’s nearly ready.  His ‘good” shiny prosthetic is strapped on,  long dark hair is pulled into a neat bun and he’s got his best blazer and clean jeans on.  The small rolling carry-on that makes managing a little easier stands waiting by the door.  He’s stuffing a load of extra stills into his backpack, wondering if they’re worth the fuss.  Sharon, his enthusiastic but canny agent,  had texted for the sixth time that morning.  _“Dude this one’s going to be big..”_   

Well sure… the game release is going to be, but seriously, he’s just the schmo who wrote the books it’s riffed from.  Do the fans really want the author’s autograph?  He doubts it, but it was awfully nice of Tinyco to have invited him to the event all expenses paid.  Buck is not so stupid as to turn down the free publicity- he loves meeting the fans and he’s grateful to them.  Sales go through the roof each time the game updates.      

Just as he’s about to close the front room shades he hears a familiar woof.  

Bucky looks across the overgrown hydrangea and blinks.  The same blond shape is sitting on his step.

_What the??_

It’s Lucky.  _Really?_ He checks his phone (the car from the agency should be coming very soon) and sighs.

10 am. No kidding.  Exact same time as last Saturday.

“Woof!”  says Lucky, staring straight at him as he opens the front door. 

An impenetrable language barrier presents itself.  The patiently waiting canine expects some thing and the human has no idea what it is.   A ball?  A walk?  A treat? 

What is clear is that Lucky has a knack for getting lose.  With one eye out for the car and the other on the street Bucky reaches for the purple collar a second time.  

 “Ok Houdini…” 

This time they reach the asphalt before Lucky breaks loose and goes bounding down the street.

 -----------------------------------

 

The third time is just downright weird.

Bucky stands, embarrassed and barely awake, in his boxers and T shirt, running a hand through his long dark locks.   It had been a long, long night. His flight home on Friday had been delayed and then the plot bunny had just bit.  He’s not had coffee, doesn’t have his prosthetic on, and is, well, _dog_ tired.

It is exactly 10 o’clock.   _What the hell??_

He cradles his stump and leans against the jamb.    “You are quite the stickler for precision, aren’t you Lucky-dog?”    

Lucky does not disagree.  He cocks his head, stares piercingly with one brown soulful eye and lets out a hopeful whine. 

Bucky sighs and wonders why he is so irritated.  He _likes_ dogs.  He does.  He is even beginning to like Lucky but he’s damned if he’ll play twenty questions with a _dog_ when he’s had about, oh, four hours sleep.  The birds had been chirping with the coming dawn when he finally shut the Airbook down. 

“Sorry boy, no capice,”   he says tiredly, wondering what’ll it take to make him go away…   

Lucky barks, sharp and quick, resettles his front paws and tail neatly around his flank.  Bucky could swear he is impatient with the human’s blockheadedness, is telegraphing “Come on…give it to me..” with every irritated shuffle. 

_What????_

“Look…” he scratches at his stubble, more than a little frustrated that he’s lost the staring contest and had to finally look away. (Ironic given he’s the one with two good eyes.)    “You’ll just have to take yourself on home. I am not ready to be out.”  

The naked stump of his left arm is _so_ not ready to the meet the neighbourhood.

Lucky ducks his head, gives another quiet woof.

“Sorry boy,” he adds, bizarrely regretful.  It’s not his dog, not his responsibility but there’s something about him, fellow challenged traveller in life, that makes him want to help.  “Next time, ok?”

As he watches Lucky bound away Bucky could swear the dang dog got every word.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

The fourth time it happens Buck decides this is _enough_ ….  

It’s the last Saturday in June and he’d heard Lucky’s morning bark even through his headset.

Jesus christ the mutt is loud. 

He hits pause on Dragon, saves the latest draft and swivels out of his worn leather office chair.  He’s moved past puzzled to full on exasperated because he’d love a dog himself but _he_ is trying to be responsible:  with his schedule it’s just unfair.  Dogs are social animals.  They need company and he’d have to leave it alone too much.   Buck’s certainly not going treat a pet that way: abandoning it to walk itself because he’s too damn busy.   

Lucky’s owner:  well obviously not so much.

Buck’d seen the lab trotting along loose on Thursday and Monday both.  What kind of negligent jerk lets a dog run around the neighbourhood like that? Particularly one without full sight?  He might get hit and hurt.  Or even stolen.

He yanks the microphone off and peers out of his office window at the grey morning sky.  The called-for thundershowers have yet to hit and if he hurries he’s not likely to risk getting wet.  It’s time to have a sharp talk with Lucky’s delinquent owner. 

“Come on boy,” he says, locking the oak front door and shoving the pile of newspapers on the step sheepishly to one side.  They, and the slew of unanswered messages from Tim and Nat blinking accusingly on his phone, remind him that he’s not left the house in days. 

(He’ll get to them.  Eventually. Honestly.  When this chapter’s done.)

Lucky lets him hold his collar all the way back to the garden gate where the lab wriggles free and squeezes artfully under the white-painted slats.  Obviously he’s done this many times.  Bucky finds himself trying not to laugh at the sight of the dog’s haunches splayed flat to the ground and wriggling like a land-locked fish. 

He takes a breath and unlatches the gate for himself.  The house beyond looks friendly enough. Amongst Dyker’s high-end modern reno’s and Craftsman beauties it’s an anomaly-an original that is unretouched.  The siding is the exact shade of buttercream you get when daisy yellow has been let to fade with the elements and the once crisp white trim is slightly dingy.  Obviously-unlike many of their neighbours-gardening and house repair do not take up every spare minute of Lucky’s owner’s time.  The thought makes him feel instinctively a little better disposed toward the occupant.   

Until he thinks of Lucky and frowns again. 

What kind of asshole lets his dog run free for weeks on end?  Not that he wants to be a jerk but jesus christ.  Someone needs to make the point…

Nervously he licks his lips and marches up to the slightly peeling magnolia front door.  He knocks.

No answer. 

He makes a fist with his prosthetic and knocks harder the second time.

“Coming!”    There’s a muffled thud and what might be a muffled ‘ _shit_ ’ before the door pulls partway open.

“Look I brought back your dog…”  Bucky begins but then the words just trail away.   

Lucky’s owner leans nonchalantly against the door. He’s clad in ripped black jeans and a purple t; his feet are bare and his sandy blond hair is a spikey mess.  Wide grey-blue eyes have bags below so big you could hide a body from the Mob.  He looks, quite frankly, a disheveled mess but there is something primal about the way he holds himself.  

Confident.  Coiled.  As if he could handle anything that might show up at his door. 

 _My god._ Bucky forces himself to close his mouth _._ The guy is truly gorgeous.   

He coughs and retains just enough tongue control to actually speak.  “Your..uhh.. dog.”    

“Oh.. sorry man… yeah, “  the guy apologizes. “You’re the new guy who bought Mr Neil’s old place right?  Should’ve said something sooner.  About Lucky.   He’s kinda used to going over.”  

 _Going over?_   _And just how did he know who he was?_   Feeling kinda creeped out that people are obviously talking about Bucky is about to ask what that the hell that means when Lucky’s man rubs his hand distractingly backwards/forwards through his close-cropped hair.   The raised arm below the sleeve immediately grabs his full attention.   It’s peppered with band-aids.  Literally all over his skin.  And bruises too. 

  _What the fuck does this guy do??  Juggle chainsaws?_

Mr. Band-aid sticks out his left hand to shake.  “Clint.  Clint Barton.”  

Bucky hesitates for a sec but the guy hasn’t even _looked_ at the metal of his hand much less seemed bothered that it is fake. 

He offers the prosthetic fingers over.   Holy shit the guy’s grip is firm.  “James.  James Barnes.”  

“Uh..you wanna come in?”  Lucky seems to approve of the offer because he has now appeared, nails clicking on the wide oak boards and tail wagging up a storm.    Bucky has to remind himself to breathe.  Clint’s small, neat nose wrinkles adorably when he shrugs.

Ticked as he was ( _is_ -they haven’t settled the issue of Lucky yet), perhaps he really should try to be friendly.   Innocent until proven guilty and all that.

At his nod Clint holds the door open wide and Bucky steps into the house.  It’s one of the smaller ones on the street.  Looks original, 1890 or thereabouts, with an easy homey feel that the fancy renos always lack.   The small sitting room at the front is furnished in eighties chintz and the dining room is all polished cherry wood. Not his taste but sorta works with the spun sugar of the elaborate plaster ceilings.  They walk on through to the kitchen at the back where there is the only concession to modern style- the new ash cupboards and pale granite countertop don’t overwhelm the space.    

“Want some coffee?”  Clint asks, one eyebrow raised.

There’s the scent of fresh brew in the air but Bucky’s eyes warily take in a huge collection of dirty plates and mugs upended by the sink.  There _was_ only a single set of shoes (black) below the brass coat hooks.  Mr Barton seems to live alone.    Either he is caffeinating half the neighbourhood or he is really bad at washing up.  _Hmmm._ Perhaps he’ll wait.

“Uh, no thanks. Just had one.”

“Suit yourself.”   Clint obviously already had one on the go.  He gulps as if it’s water and he’s been ten days in the Sahara without a drop. 

Bucky’s eyes bug out.   Wow, the guy’s hardcore. Perhaps he works night shift.  That would explain the bags and the lack of daytime doggy oversight.   

“Nice place,” he says, genuinely admiring.  Off the kitchen there’s a bright west-facing room with a dark purple leather couch and chair and a huge OLED tv.   Playstation 4 sits nearby, plugged in and ready.  A stack of games is piled messily on the white-shag carpet   He smiles.  Blond dog hair is detectable on nearly every horizontal surface.

“Thanks.  I can’t take the credit.  It was my aunt’s.  Kate.  She kept it up.  Left it to me when she died.”

“Sorry about that,” he offers automatically but Clint waves the condolences away.  

“S’fine,” The half-full carafe is pulled from its slot and he pours another cup. “She was a tough old bird.  Good innings.”    

Bucky tries not to stare when he notices another band-aid below Clint’s ear.  _What the?_ _How’d the guy get this beaten up?_   “Look, about Lucky.”    

Clint sighs extravagantly and drops a callused hand down to pet fondly his dog’s head.   The subject in question sits silently at his master’s feet, facing forward, nose up and good eye trained on Buck exactly as if he’s got Clint’s point.  For a moment Bucky wonders if he’s a retired service dog.   

 “He’s pretty independent.  No need to bring him home.  He knows which way to go..”

“Uhmm  but…”   Clint’s comment was said with a singular lack of concern.  How can Bucky explain himself without pissing the guy right off?   “That’s not the issue.  Won’t he get hurt?  He seems to get out a lot.  A car might not see him on the road.” 

This amuses rather than insults.   There is a low chuckle and another pat.   “Naw.”   Clint sets the now half empty cup on the countertop.  “He’s street smart.  Watch him.  He might be partly blind but there is nothing wrong with his hearing.  He hears a car he’ll pull over to the side.” 

Bucky wants to protest but something about the guy’s firmness and the spark in Lucky’s one eye make him reconsider.   Well then.  The man must know his dog and it’s not Bucky’s call to enforce rules on another person’s life.    He’s done his bit.     

After a few more minutes of polite chat he bids dog and man goodbye.   It isn’t until he is walking back, nearly at his porch and waving politely to Mrs. Miller next door that he gets the answer to his puzzle. 

The older lady smiles and waves back, sets down her watering can. Bucky eyes the heavy laden clouds overhead- isn’t it going to rain?  Perhaps the dedicated watering is why her geraniums _are_ a spectacular sea of fucshia pink.   He blinks.  They match her eye-wateringly bright front door.   

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes.  Out for a nice stroll?”

He hesitates to stop but then remembers Mrs. Miller is outside every day.  He doesn’t think she is exactly nosy, just friendly and genuinely interested, more of a Miss. Marple who notices everything and everyone.   Perhaps best to explain what he is about. 

“I just took Lucky back Mrs. Miller. He got out again.”

“Oh, bless my soul.   He does it all the time,” she says airily, pulling a set of wickedly sharp secateurs from her apron.  Spent flower heads fall as she smiles sweetly up at Buck. (Obviously the lady is a pro: she can talk and prune at the same time.)     “No need to take him home, Mr. Barnes.  He’s knows his way.  He’s just doing his usual round.”

“Round?”

“Oh.  Don’t you know? No one said anything?” 

Bucky counts to three inside his head.  No, no one has said anything.  So far the people in Dyker Heights have been very nice, but outside of Jane, the neighbour to his left, and Mrs Miller herself and now Lucky’s Mr. Barton,  none of them have said much beyond hello and handing him another blueberry pie.  It’s the suburbs, he reminds himself.  Give them a little time and they’ll warm up. 

Mrs. Miller pauses to clip off a thorn-studded branch.   “Lucky has a schedule.   You can set your watch by it dear.   He comes to each of us.  My day is Tuesday.  Baking day.   He positively loves my toll-house cookies.”   She beams, seemingly oblivious to the look of dawning horror on her new neighbour’s face.

Oh god.  Lucky’s a chowhound who cruises the neighbourhood for food?  Visiting Bucky’s house every Saturday?   

“What does he come here for?”  His heart is sinking, he’s afraid to know the answer because although Bucky likes to cook, sifting and flour are not his thing.   Delicate manoeuvers with pastry are tricky no matter how good the Stark prosthetic is. 

“Oh that’s easy, Mr. Barnes.   Pizza.   Mr. Neil wasn’t well enough to do for himself but he could still use the telephone.” 

 _Pizza?_   Lucky’s coming to his house each Saturday for pizza?   

“What type?” The question blurts out before he can stop himself.  “Spicy pepperoni can’t be good.”   

“Oh that’s exactly what he likes.” 

Of course. 

Mrs Miller’s smile crinkles at the corner of her eyes while she ruthlessly prunes the faded and the limp.  Pink petals rain down to the grass while Bucky processes the incongruity of it all.

_Lucky is a pizza dog?_


	2. the lucky special

“What can we put you down for Mr Barnes?”  

“James.” He corrects, automatically.  Jane and another woman Bucky  does not recognise stand expectantly on his step.   “Down for Ma’am?”  he asks, crossing his metal arm.  Both of them are trying not to look at it; Jane curiously, the other lady a little shocked and it’s so obvious even he feels a little nervous.   

The woman is introduced.  Marilyn (call me Mari) lives in the immaculate grey, red and beige modern box four houses down.  It and its owner are perfectly turned out- her blond hair is pulled up into an elegant chignon and her topsiders look as if they’ve never seen a lawn much less the deck of a wet and dirty sloop.  Bucky wipes surreptitiously at a dirty grey smudge on the house’s peeling trim.

Mari hands over an expertly photoshopped flyer for the annual 4th of July street party.  “The annual block potluck.  Of course you will attend.  A dessert perhaps?”   The firm, red smile says he wouldn’t dare turn her down.

Jane nods, her smile warm below a sharp pair of keen sable eyes.  ‘And it’s a chance to get to know everyone a little a better..”  

 _Can you make a trifle that is red white and blue?_ he wonders, glancing around at the adjacent houses.  A forest of banners already line every porch.  It’s impressive.  The dedication Dyker Heights has to community spirit _is_ legendary but it also makes him a little nervous.  Still… a party.  Kelsey would like that.

Mari, like a prize-fighter, senses she has him on the ropes.  “That’s settled then.   Of course you’ve heard about the Christmas lights.”

“Lights…?”  He’s going to have to do lights too?  

“We’re famous, “ she explains as a check mark is placed beside his name on a neatly printed list.  “The best display in all of New York City according to GoNYC.  People come from all over for the tour.” 

Oh god.  He’s going to have to compete with that?  How would he fiddle with little bulbs with one good hand?   The thought is a little overwhelming but then Jane smiles, places a hand on the other woman’s arm.  “Now Mari, James has just moved.  Give him a little time to get settled in.”

Bucky smiles at her gratefully.  “I can do a dessert,” he announces, thinking that at least he can buy one if he needs.  

“And how many burgers would you like?”   The flyer highlights something called ‘Dave’s fabulous dino-burgers.”

“Uh.. Three. ”  

Both ladies’ eyebrows raise.  Before he can explain he is not a greedy pig an auburn whirlwind comes bouncing up to the door.

“Daddy who is it?”  

Kelsey pulls her earbuds out and Taylor Swift’s blares tinnily in the hush.  She’s got his oldest Rutger’s t-shirt on and smile about a borough wide.   

The eyebrows, if anything, raise a little higher.

“And my daughter will be there,”  he explains.   “Kelsey, I’d like you to meet Jane Foster from just next door and Marilyn…?”

“Wilson.”

 “…from down the street.”   

“Nice to meet you. “ Kelsey’s smile goes with a very firm hand shake for one with such delicate and bird-like bones.  He smiles proudly.  She’s Nat’s in her build and colouring but Bucky’s in her eyes and normally blunt outspokenness.

 “Ooooh how lovely Jane, a friend for Darcy.”  Jane looks surprised and very pleased but is cut-off before she can draw breath to speak.  “Nice to meet you Kelsey,” Mari coos. “And your mom? Will she be coming too?”   Blue eyes slide inquiringly from Kelsey up to Buck.   

“Oh no, she’s not here. They just signed the papers.” 

 “Kelsey!”  Bucky forgets to be worried about the arm and hides his face in his metal palm, mortified by her words.  Perhaps a hatch will open in the porch and swallow him up whole.  Or Kelsey.  Or preferably them both.

 “Really..?”   Mari looks as if a fish had just slapped her in the face. She has clearly not been briefed on how to handle this sort of situation.  Jane, bless her quick thinking brain, seems far more concerned with practicalities. 

“How often will you be here…?”  An expression of motherly interest lights the elegant face.  

“Every other week.”  Kelsey, secure, positive and just a little pre-teen oblivious to how much this is a stake right through his heart (they _have_ tried to shield her from the angst), leans carelessly up against the screen.   “Mom’s in the neighbourhood too.   I’m going to go to Fischer in the fall.”

“Isn’t that…nice,” finishes Mari lamely, but her tone says it’s anything but.  Bucky’s pretty sure she is horrified.   It’s awkward but it is what’s best for Kels; keeps her in the same school and makes shuttling between homes a matter of a fifteen minute walk.  The woman is making him start to grit his teeth.  He glances back to see how Kelsey’s taking it.   His preternaturally together child (who likes bullshit about as much her dad) has _that_ grin on her elfin face. 

Oh no.  This does not bode well.  

Kelsey pushes out of her slouch and stands forward a little more.  “Oh it’s fine Mrs. Wilson.  Dad and Mom are still best of friends. And Darren’s so in love with Mom just about anything is cool.” 

 “Kelsey Lynn!”  His bark is out before he can help himself.   He’s cringing at her words and his reaction both: he sounds just like his mother WInifred when she hollared “James Buchanan” to half their Brooklyn block.    

His daughter looks up from under deep red lashes and mouths a sheepish ‘sorry’.  Of course it’s all he can do not to melt.  He shouldn’t be upset with how ok she is with this.  So far Kelsey has let all the many changes roll right off her back and none of it’s her fault.  He and Nat have got her into this and he _is_ past the point when every time he hears Darren’s name he wants to slug the guy. 

 It’s just….some details should be kept private.  Neighbours are curious enough as it is.

“Isn’t that.. so… equable.”  Buck could swear Mari looks like she has a small turd underneath her nose.   She is not amused.  Jane on the other hand looks like she’s smothering a laugh.

“Kelsey, my daughter Darcy is just about your age.  She’ll be thrilled to meet you when she’s back. Our block has so many boys.   She and her little brother are away in Maine right now but they’ll be home before the fourth.  I’ll be sure to send her round.”

“Cool…Can’t wait. Nice to meet you.’  With a bouncy wave and quick hug for Buck Kelsey is back up the stairs and gone.  The delegation leaves the pamphlet and retreats.  Buck stares at it accusingly, seemingly rooted to the porch. 

Ya. Cool.  Oh well..one set of landmines down…

\----------------------------------------

The week rolls by in an eyeblink.   Before Bucky knows it it is Thursday and Kelsey has to go back with Nat and he will be trying to put the house to rights again. 

They had an awesome time.  Kels loves her new bedroom.  He got major dad points for the trundle bed and a gushing “this is going to be sleepover central pop.”   Together they had gel-gemmed her big dormer window with ballerinas, painted a mural of grass and butterflies around her headboard and shopped for a new comforter and drapes.  Pale green dots win out.  He can’t help but feel a pang of loss: his little girl no longer wants cartoon characters on her bed.  Before long it will be posters of Justin Timberlake and Jonas Brothers.  Gods.  He’s not ready for it yet.

The custody arrangement calls for alternate weeks, change over on Thursdays, but this week, Kelsey’s first since the official split, he had an extra day.  Her bag is packed.  Stuffies will go back and forth.  Shoes and few a favourite clothes.  Latest book and iphone.  He doesn’t want her feeling like she’s camping out when she’s at the house so lots of new items have found their way inside.

He’s not bribing. Nope.  Truly not.

7 pm rolls round and Bucky is trying to keep himself calm and cool, arms up to his elbows in sudsy dishwasher because doing the hand washing is _what he would normally do this time of night_.  If he sticks with the routine maybe it won’t feel so unreal and horrible waiting for Nat to arrive.  Kelsey seems a little on edge too.  She’s putting away the dry stuff- trying to remember where everything goes-but her voice is high and tight and her usual beaming smile is nowhere to be seen.

When she stands, confused, pausing between two options he gestures with his chin to the drawer beside the dishwasher.   “Hey..doll.. not there…in the other one..” 

 “Dad, really?  A peeler in the cutlery tray?”

“Hey, it’s the item I use most.”  He mock glares and she fondly twirls a finger around by her ear.

That’s more like it, a little smile is back.  Maybe they got this beat.  No tears.  No serious melt-downs for either of them beyond the expected first time anxiety.  The therapist he’d consulted said to take it easy.  Treat changeover like it is _normal_.  Because it is..or will be in Kelsey’s life.  And expect the new normal to have some bumps. 

The sound that he’s been dreading all day long,  car tires on their lane,  comes from outside and it takes everything in him not to start. 

“Mom’s here…” 

Right on cue Kelsey’s face begins to fall.

Shit…

Methodically, Buck pops the drain, flips the dish towel over his shoulder and dries wet fingers while he takes an extra breath.  He can’t help her if he is a mess himself.

Kelsey is not tearing through the door to say hello and that stillness more than anything speaks volumes of how hard this moment really is.  He looks over and catches a glimmer of unshed tears.  Her chin, Nat’s pointy one, is quivering. 

“Oh baby girl...”    His heart breaks… again.  He hates this too.  Another man is gonna be in her life. Become important to her and jesus christ it hurts.  But even as the thought snakes in he shakes himself.    _Come on Barnes.. for Kels sake get a grip._    

“Come here.”   Both arms reach out to wrap up her in a giant hug.  “You’ll be back here before you know it.”

“I know....”  The hiccuping sniff is affirmative but the face against his chest is shaking no. “But I feel so guilty!”

“What? Why?! “  Shocked, Buck tips Kelsey’s face up to carefully catch her gaze. “You know sweetheart all this has nothing to do with you?  Sometimes people fall out of love. It’s no one’s fault. And we’re still your mom and dad even if we don’t live together.”

Small lilac-tipped fingers clutch at his shirt, trying to coax feelings into words. It occurs to Buck how ridiculous it is that they are asking their daughter to understand something they don’t fully understand themselves.   

“I know!  It’s not that.. not really.  It’s just…it’s _hard_.  Mum’s so happy and Darren’s not a total jerk but you’re so sad.  It’s not fair!”

 _Oh._     Bless her giant heart Kelsey’s always been sensitive to his moods…. wants everyone to get along.   His first instinct is to deny but then he drops a kiss to the top of her head and squeezes a little harder.  He can’t bs his way out, shovel it under the couch.   Honesty will be the thing that gets them through.  “You’re right. I am a little sad just now, a little lonely on my own but I will get used to it.   I will be happy. I just need to find myself a bit here, get settled.   Your mum and I are still friends.  I still have Becca and Dan and Nana and Gabe and Tim.  Lots of friends.   And maybe you could call me a bit more this week?  I’d love that.”

Kelsey’s nodding, a tear or two now trickling down her cheek when he hears the screen door squeak.   Nat’s walking in, as usual silent as a cat.

 “Hey…”   She freezes in the doorway.  They’re both wrapped up and her baby’s not doing great.  “Oh honey.”   Nat looks about as deflated as she ever could, rounds the island and stands beside them, huffing out a long sad sigh.    A small strong hand rubs slow circles across Kelsey’s back. 

“Mom”   The tears flow faster and Nat’s looking about as heartbroken as he feels.  Bucky is very proud that his voice does not crack, when he finds the breath to speak  

“Where’s…?”  

“Darren?”  Nat finishes, whispering, a slight frown across her brow.  Is she relieved that he didn’t say ‘ferret-face’?   As if he would in front of _her._    

His former high-school-sweetheart-wife-and still-mother-of-his-kid shakes her glossy red head.   “Didn’t come.”   

Good.  Nat owes him and she knows it.  She is trying to make it easier on Buck but there is no way this was ever going to be a cake walk- not when your life has been turned upside down.  He sighs. She looks great.  The cream business suit and heels he remembers but the ruby-set  silver bracelet is clearly new.  Nat looks relaxed for all her eyes are worried now.  Ferret-face must be good for her-their last six months she’d sometimes looked like she’d been strung out on a rack. 

“Sugar plum?”  The circles speed up.  Nat’s pet name for Kelsey makes his heart stutter in his chest.  Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies had always been her favourite ballet.  “We should get back.  Bed time will come real soon.” 

Kelsey nods and sniffs noisily, turns into her mother’s arms and somehow he makes it to the porch.  How much Nat’s heard of their conversation his is unsure.  He finds her gaze over top of Kelsey’s head and her auburn chignon shakes - the universal hand symbol for telephone waves beside her ear.  

He accepts a last giant wet kiss and another bone-crushing hug.   Pretends like his heart isn’t being ripped from his chest. 

Oh fuck… Kels is about to go and it’s a train that is heading into a tunnel and it’s blind…no way out,  no going back and he’s doing his best not to hyperventilate  

_Three…_

“Bye baby. Text me, anytime, ok?”      Kelsey nods and opens the passenger door while Nat sits down and puts the key into the ignition. 

_Two….._

 “Bye Dad.. Love you..see you super soon.”  A kiss is blown his way.. a faint smile is back. 

God his girl. Trooper til the last.  

_One……_

 “Love you too…”   He’s waving madly, Stark metal shining in the lingering evening sun as the Volvo pulls out of the lane.  Keeps it up until the car has made it all the way down the street. 

_Boom…._

Turns back and stares at the now too quiet, but not exactly empty space.

Dammit but his eyes are watering—it’s ridiculous how much dust moving can kick up.

\----------------------------------------

Bucky is unhelpfully, or helpfully depending on your perspective, not entirely out of boxes.  The slowly descending towers in the spare bedrooms and the workshop give him something to do, a focus for the next crushing days and he makes good progress but really he should get some help.  The garage and the attic are not even started yet.  Becca and Dan said they would come by but he does not feel up to his sister’s brand of caring—Becca means well but she fusses, even now, endlessly worrying about what his arm can do-it gets tiring and he’s in no mood.  The guys have promised to help but they are all on holiday…next week for sure.

In the interim he forces himself to make proper meals and not eat standing at the sink. 

On Sunday morning Bucky decides to blow off a little steam: he’s not yet found a gym nearby he likes but at the very least he can get out and run—not become a floppy noodle before term starts. 

He starts at an easy pace, nothing too extreme, working his way down 14th to the Beach Park where the space is green and treed—cool on a morning where it promises to be hot.  It’s just six but already the paths have other denizens, early morning dog walkers mostly with their furry friends on leads-the sign at the entrance indicates it is a dog-friendly space but off leash is not allowed outside the fenced play yard.  He nods to a Bernese and a lady who looks familiar (though he totally cannot place her name) and heads down around the far end of the yards where he kicks it up a notch.  The view from the height out across Gravesend Bay is golden..  Before too long he’s sweating something fierce and wishing that he’d thought to bring a water bottle.  Another k and he gives in, drags off his shirt and uses it to mop his face, blinking at the glare off his arm.  He’s mostly over the embarrassment of the scars.  Its been fifteen years and it is a part of him now, it’s the stump that he still sometimes has trouble with (and the nightmares:  all screeching metal and screaming human, sparks and dark and the horror that he can not stop).  He shakes his head.  _Focus Barnes..this is supposed to get you outta your own head._

He kicks off for another lap and past the baseball diamond it amuses him to find evidence that Mr Barton actually _does_ take his dog for walks.  Clint and Lucky are out running too.  They’re bringing up the rear, joining his inner track and looking pretty good: Barton’s smaller than Bucky is, wirier, a little older, but moving with a pace that says he’s no stranger to working out.  An easy stride that it looks like he could keep for miles.    

Bucky nods politely and turns back to his lane, loops his shirt around his neck, thinking about what in the world to do once he gets home when he half jumps out of his skin.   

 “On your left” Barton calls as he breezes past, flat out sprinting and Bucky pretty much has to swerve to give the guy some space.  

 “Sorry!”   An arm with only a couple of band-aids is raised in apology.

 _Jerk_ , Buck mutters under his breath. Lucky is quite obviously not on leash and  Barton’s  showing off-there was no need for him to run so close.   Buck fights the urge to speed up again because _he_ can be an adult and keep competition out of everything in life.  

 And obey the rules.

Watching the purple tank pull away another stray thought comes up- 

_Nice ass tho.._

\-------------------------------------------

After that short-lived distraction the first part of the week without Kelsey really sucks.   

He calls his writer’s group, gets caught up with Jim and Tim and Gabe.  Spends way too much time on his twitter feed and tumblr blog, answering every ask with something the size of War and Peace. 

At his monthly physio check in he chats with each member of the team.  The arm is a blessing and a curse;  a new model developed by Stark Industries just to give users like him more fine control for typing and the like- the downside is it is heavy as bloody sin. All fancy servos and extra sensors.  Sometimes it feels like his shoulder will fall off.  Helen frowns..recommends he work on the ‘extra tension in his shoulders”.   

Well.  Yeah.  He’d love to but ferret-face is not around.

Mostly Bucky rattles from room to room, checks his phone for texts ten times an hour (Kelsey sends them more like every  three) and inevitably finds himself back in the office, staring at the collage of fanart and character bios he’s recreating on the wall.  It’s the first space he’s straightened up: he has to work, a first draft of the next volume is due by labour day and the move and the Con put a serious kink in that.  He puts on some mood enhancing music , settles into the chair and by Thursday night he’s getting his daily totals back on track.

Oddly, the one truly bright spot comes when he thinks of Saturday and Lucky coming by. 

Buck agonizes beforehand. Frozen or fresh?  Frozen pizza was easy but who knew what additives they put in.  Fresh was maybe a little healthier but that meant he’d have to order it every time. 

After much deliberation he hones in on Carlo’s, the pizza parlour down 13th.   It is conveniently four blocks away across from the yard of Kelsey’s new school.  Might as well find out how good it is because, according to Jane, the kids in the fall will wind up half living there.  

Friday afternoon he pulls out his phone and sends Kelsey a quick text.  “Buying from Carlos..”  

Two minutes later Kelsey’s ping tone pops up.   “Dad the place is awesome!.”   Heart heart heart and four thumbs up.  

He laughs.  Awesome.  Kelsey’s favourite word these days.  Everything is awesome.  Well.. that settles that.

Bucky walks down the street and wanders in.  The place is spartan, glass case and formica countertop, pleather banquettes.   Nothing too fancy (basic menu. a rainbow of real gelato flavours) and hasn’t likely changed in thirty years.  Lega Nazionale soccer posters brighten the plaster walls.  Mama is singing in the kitchen beyond the till and the radio plays top 40 pop.

“What can I get for you?”   A salt-pepper-haired, fifty-something guy behind the counter finishes up fiddling with an industrial-looking coffee machine.  He has an Italian accent by way of the Bronx and a grin of gold-edge teeth.   

The welcoming grin immediately puts Bucky at his ease. 

“Uh.. Hi.  I want to order something special.”

“No problem…”  The man reaches across counter with a hand like a baseball mit.  “Welcome  Mr. Barnes.  Carlo Guistino.  You are the writer who bought old man Neil’s place?”

Bucky blinks in surprise.  “I am.  How’d you know?”

Carlos nods toward his arm.   “That little Darcy Lewis brought your daughter round after soccer the other night.”   Bucky remembers.   Kelsey had sent a selfie of her and her new BFF holding blue and purple freezies.    “She told me all about you.  Let me guess. You want the Lucky special?  One a week.” 

Bucky goes from surprised to shocked.  “You know about that too?”  

“Of course I do.” Carlo grins and pulls a pad and pen across.  “Mr Neil been ordering for two years.  No problem.  Give me your credit card and we can set up a standing order.  Deliver it to you Friday night at 6?  We don’t open til 11:30 on Saturdays.”

“Uh sure…”  He fishes out his VISA from his wallet and shoves it in the reader, wondering if Lucky will mind that the pizza was baked the night before?  Suppose it’s what he’s already used to.  “What’s on it…?”

“Extra pepperoni, less sauce, less cheese.”  Dark brown eyes crinkle up in mirth.  “Cause the old guy’s watching his waistline.”

Watching his waistline.  Yes well..  Extra pepperoni.  Buck considers and then declines to comment…

It’s been two years.  The regimen obviously hasn’t done the animal any harm yet .

\-------------------------

 

“Woof!” 

Ten am rolls around way too fast.  Buck walks across the worn smooth planks of the front hall floor and peers through the screen.   Yup.. Lucky is there and a pink nose is wriggling excitedly.  Darnned if the dog can’t smell the pizza from the step.   He grabs the greasy, cheesy cardboard box from the oven where he’d warmed it up and heads out to the porch. 

A dilemma presents itself.  What should he do-put it on a plate?  Divide it up into bite size pieces?  Hold it for Lucky to chew?   Buck settles for putting the cardboard straight on the porch and loosening a triangle.  He watches gobsmacked as Lucky picks up the slice and with a happy wag of his tail trots back down the walk. 

“Lucky!…Lucky wait…”   The sight of the retriever calmly sauntering with an entire pizza slice hanging out of his mouth is just too good to miss.  The dog pauses and he snaps a quick picture with his phone, hits send to Kelsey because she won’t believe it unless she sees.

Lucky turns and wanders on.  

Buck heads back in to the kitchen and makes another pot of coffee, pulls out his phone, and while it drips checks his texts even though there’d been no ping.  Of course Kelsey hasn’t replied already.  She and Nat are scoping out a new ballet studio for the fall but the part of him itching for contact hopes anyway.  The clock says 10:05.  Shit.  The whole transaction at had taken a little under ten minutes.    Only half the morning’s gone. 

The prospect of another day alone stretches out ahead. 

He carries his mug through to the office, sets it on the glass desk top and picks up the mounting pile of paper correspondence.  He’d kept up on his Twitter feed and most messaging to his website in the chaotic past few months but the old-fashioned letters had been ignored.  Janice his assistant just had a baby end of April and he’d not had time to find a temp.   Replying to the lot should be a good way to fill the time.   Two piles like Janice always does:  reply from him and reply from her.  He likes to personally respond to the fans who send him art. 

Opening and sorting consume two solid hours.  Walking down to the Parkway Deli for a sub soaks up another.   Next he mows the lawn (Sunday it’s supposed to rain) but after that, between work and a desultory poke at a box or two, he’s inside and alone too much with his thoughts.  All he can think of is missing Kels.   How long it will be to next Thursday.  How much the weekend stretches empty out ahead.  How bad he feels that they couldn’t make it work.

By nine, he’s choked down an omelet for dinner and tried to write but the words simply will not flow.  He’s crawling the walls.   Fed up with the space that he loved so much just days before and antsy under his skin.   A sure warning sign that it will be a bad night unless he loosens up.

Fuck it. 

He grabs his wallet and keys and heads the three blocks to the Wood.

 

## \--------------------------------------

 

Dyker Heights’ main watering hole is not a dive, not a cheap watered down swill joint -the neighbourhood’s too improved for that -but Buck finds himself pleasantly surprised thatneither is the Wood a faux Irish pub or posh gastro-wine-bar.   It’s pleasantly dim, with a comfortable lived in feel- like a favourite shoe. Basic oak tables.  Black leather chairs and a bar along one wall.  A nicely deep stable of whiskies above a broad glass mirror.  The Mets-Phillies game is on the flat screen tv. 

 Might do.  A few drinks.  A little mindless tv in oblivious company of other fans and he might just be relaxed enough to sleep.  Avoid the Dream TM  .  He’d take that for a win.   

He decides he ‘llstart a little slow (it could be a long night) and checks out what beers are on tap. After careful consideration he orders a pint of Keith’s.   The owner, Mel, introduces himself and seems like a friendly sort.    Bucky picks up the glass and takes a sip to cut back the overflowing head and then wanders down the tables searching for a quiet spot. 

There’s not much space, a tight pennant race has the bar near full, and his own eyes are half on the game when a voice he recognizes speaks up. 

“Barnes…”

A guy with spikey blond hair and attitude is slouched back against the wall.  And a pair of blond paws pokes out from underneath the seat.  Something about it makes him think of old time movies- a gunslinger sitting back to the world and any approaching threat.

“Barton.. uh.. nice to see you.”   _Nice to see you_ , jeez..  Smooth  Buck..real smooth.    There’s an open seat across.  He hesitates.   After the morning encounter he’s wondering about the guy but how bad can he be?  At least this is someone in theory that he knows.  Company wouldn’t be a a total chore and perhaps he can learn a bit more about neighbours, though Clint doesn’t really look like the gossip sort.  _Fuck it._    He gestures with his good hand.  “May I join you?”

“Sure…”      

Buck sits down, pulls over a coaster and sets down his pint.  Barton already has one on the go: dark beer, the sort of stuff you can stand a spoon in.  Buck’s opinion of the guy goes up a notch or two.  Not the usual stuff a stuck up poseur would drink.  Beside the pint the remains of a pizza slice is sitting on a plate.  Guess he knows where Lucky gets his preference from. 

“I’m not bothering you, am I?”  

The man’s expressive mouth curls into a slow smile.  “Naw. Me ‘an Lucky we were just hanging out.”   The waitress comes round with a bowl of snacks and he lifts a finger for another one, reaches over and picks up a pretzel.  Without looking he flips it across his lap.

 Lucky gets it before it even hits the floor.

Clint settles back against the wall again and takes a larger gulp.  He looks better than the last time they’d met, there is a noticeable lack of band aids on his arms.  “Missus let you out?”    

“Wah…. hunh?”   Bucky’s watching the man’s deft fingers drum against the pint.  They’ve got odd calluses.  On the finger pads.  Not on the tips like a guitar player. _Weird_.

“Were you transferred?” Barton continues on. “Saw your wife and kid arrived few days ago.”  

It takes Bucky a minute to realize what he’s referring to.   He must have seen Nat picking Kelsey up.   “No missus.   Divorced.  My daughter was just visiting.”

“Ah…sorry.   Saw her there.  Just assumed.  Sucks.”

“Thanks.  It’s ok.. it’s amicable.”  he adds hastily, not wanting to have to go into all that mess.  

He loved Nat… he really did.. but not that way.  Marriage as bromance  was not what her huge heart deserved.  Or his.  They’d had fifteen years together: best friends and high school sweethearts before he really even knew what attraction was.  She’d been there to pick up the pieces after his accident, helped him get back on his feet.  They’d had good times in the early days, great even once in a while but lately _the_ thing, the only thing that kept them going was Kels.  And then..kaboom.  Darren.  Nat coming home, alight with a sort of devotion he’d never felt, glowing and agonized all at once.   He been shocked, rocked to his core, but a little tiny bit relieved.  They’d both felt how hollow life had become.   He’d adjust.  He just needed time.

Clint also seems to understand economy of expression because he does not try to pry more.   Bucky wonders what his story is—why he is alone in that big house? - but does not ask.  Thoughtful consideration is deserved in turn.

He raises his own pint for a sip and Clint gestures to his arm. “You a vet?”

“No.”  It wasn’t the first time he’d been asked that.  The truth is rather more prosaic.  “I lost it as a teen.  Motorcycle accident.  Hit a truck, got dragged and it went septic afterwards.  They had to take my arm.”   Septic was a bit of understatement but close enough for the abridged version.   The drunk semi-driver hadn’t even seen him.  Somewhere in the dirt and gravel ground into his shredded arm had been one of those nasty bacteria that don’t let up.  Flesh-eating.  It had been far far too near a thing. 

Clint winces.  “Rough luck.”

Bucky shrugs.  “I’m used to it.  And the Stark prosthesis helps. ”   It does.  Helps him manage on his own many little things that were a hassle from before.  Buttons. Cutting food.  Typing even, though he still had to get the hang of it.  The surgery on his stump had been a necessary nightmare (reminded him a bit too much of the first months in hospital) but he’d bounced back.  Is actually looking forward to teaching his annual second year creative writing course handling computer gear and pointers with total ease.    

After a quiet pause to commiserate on an unfortunate, rally-busting triple play, they shoot the breeze for a while.  Bucky keeps one eye on the game; the Mets are losing but he’s just enjoying being out.  Clint is surprisingly easy to talk with—or he should say to- the guy mostly asks questions of him and doesn’t offer much of himself other than he works ‘security’.  Buck gets the impression that means something rather more elaborate than night guard but doesn’t press him more. 

Each of them sip quietly, silently for a while.  Clint is one of those guys who needs something to occupy his hands when he’s sitting; he takes a napkin and folds it into a perfect arrow head.   Nonchalantly, almost blindly, he throws it at their waitress Lisa.  

It lands perfectly behind her ear.  

Bucky’s eyes nearly google out.  “How the fuck did you do that?”

“Practice.”  The wry half-grin is back.  Below the chair Lucky sighs and rolls over to the other side, gets a pat and goes back to sleep.  Clint calls for a third, a brand he’s never tried and Buck thinks why not?  

“So you’re a writer?” Clint comments when this new marriage of water and darkly malted barley has been appropriately appreciated.

“I am. And I teach a bit at NYU.”

“What do you write? Blog? Books?”

Bucky nods cautiously, flushing as red as the star on his shirt sleeve. This is the part he never likes.  It’s not that he’s embarrassed for himself.  Hell no.  He loves his characters.  They are like family now and the money has been beyond good.  But some people think it’s a little weird that a thirty-year old man writes stuff for teens.    “You’ll never have heard of it.  It’s.. ah.. a young adult series.“

Clint’s lifting up his pint.  The new brand is going down nice and smooth.  “Try me.” 

“Avengers Academy.  They made it into a video game.”

Lugtread’s finest ale spews spectacularly halfway across the tabletop.  

 “Aw,  beer no…”   Clint mournfully mops at his shirt while Bucky jumps up and grabs more napkins from the bar.  Knew he shouldn’t have admitted it.    He watches while the other guy wipes down.   Shit.  So much for respectability.  

Clint crumples the wet napkins into a ball and pauses in wiping his fingers off.  He looks a little apologetic and more than a little amused.   “No man.  Seriously.   I like them.  Avengers Academy is awesome.”

“You know it?”    _It is?_

“I’m not shittin’ you.”  Clint is smiling at his expression of dumbfounded disbelief.  An adult who has read the books?  Buck knows many play the game but that’s mostly girls not guys. 

 “It’s reali …” Barton pauses and clears his throat, “ …really entertaining.”

Buck frowns.  He could have sworn that the first thing Clint had been going to say was ‘realistic’. 


	3. party time

Turns out, in the hands of determined suburbia you can make just about anything red white and blue. 

Kelsey proudly carries the patriotic-coloured trifle over to a trestle table bedecked in red and white check.  His mom’s go-to dessert is by no means the only multi-coloured offering-there’s an entire replica flag of fruit and marshmallow skewers, a berry pie with pastry stars and a gloriously obnoxious jello mould.   Wow..and a ton of food.  Bucky had no idea how many people would turn out but it looks to be most of two blocks-both 84th and 14th are blocked off.   A group of moms stand cooing over the latest new arrival; kiddies are lined up excitedly at the end of the street waiting for the bike parade.     Ipod speakers play Adele’s latest soulful angst. Four gas grills have been dragged out of their owner’s yards and are manned by dads in star-spangled aprons.  Beer and wine hang out in coolers beside bunting-trimmed tables groaning with many, many salads.   

It’s inviting and looks like fun but is also slightly intimidating.

Jane Foster glances up from the knot of women and hustles over with a young brunette in tow.  She has stickers on her cheeks, her mother’s elegant arched eyebrows and fall of rich dark hair. This must be the famous Darcy.   

“James… so glad you could make it.”  Jane beams.  “Wonderful.. and welcome Kelsey.  I thought perhaps Darcy could introduce Kelsey round.  Darcy this is Kelsey’s dad James Barnes.”  

Darcy  waves shyly, chewing gum and looking wide-eyed at his arm.  It occurs to Bucky this is not first time his shining metal prosthetic makes him look a little fearsome.   

”Hi there.  Don’t worry I don’t bite.”

“Hi…”  Buck glances sideways.  Kelsey is nervous, he can tell by the way she twines her fingers surreptitiously in her own red curls.   She hasn’t quite reached the age where new and different with her peers is entirely good.  It will come.  And truth be told he feels a little nervous himself.  

“Hi…..”  Darcy glances over to where a knot of girls cluster around a middle-age woman in flowing patchwork skirts.  “Do you wanna try the beads?  Skye’s mum has set up a table for us to try out stringing.”   .

Kelsey brightens up at that.  Making things is still a draw.  “Sure.  Can I dad?”

He smiles in what he hopes is a supportive way before Darcy all but drags her off.   “Go for it.”   

After that Bucky chats with Jane, asks about the kids’ trip up north, scans the crowd and realizes with some dismay he’s the only single person there.  When she pulls him into the group of moms to introduce him round he doesn’t protest.   He might as well get to know the true source of info on the schools, on the kids Kelsey will be hanging with.  He accepts a beer and sets up a folding chair at the end of the loose circle.  The talk is all of people’s comings and goings for the summer.  Names he doesn’t know swirl round; some of them surely he’s met before but it’s hard with so many faces to memorize.  Bucky gives in and tries to enjoy his beer.   

“Mr Barnes is it true that you’re a writer? “  asks the friendly blond with the infant dribbling on her shoulder.   She expertly dabs a splodge of milk before shifting the little boy into her arms.

“James. Call me James.”  He says automatically.  “Yes, I am.  I write fiction.”

“Oh how lovely.  Anything we’d know?”  

“I don’t think so.”  Somehow he can’t picture these well put together and educated women putting  “Forever Allies” on their book club list.  After listening for a while Buck gets up and snags himself one of the famous burgers (they’re great, pork and beef and tons of herbs); takes a minute to thank Marilyn for her impressive organization and takes a turn at the bbq.   The dads are friendly too:  he has offers for help with eavestroughs and ladders, admiration for going solo with a pre-teen girl and tips on which hardware store to hit.  They’re nice.  These people are nice and by the time dessert rolls around he’s met mostly everyone and feels an awful lot more relaxed. 

He smiles to see Kelsey and Darcy snag huge helpings of nearly every treat.  They are quite the unit and the brunette is gushes enthusiastically  about their trifle as she scoops a giant spoon into her mouth.  “Omg this is the best ever…” 

Kelsey blushes and smiles right back, wiggling her faintly blue-tinged fingers.  “We even dyed the jam.”    They had.   And used strawberries for red.  The kitchen was a disaster zone but he’d clean up when they were back.

“Hey girls.”   

“Hey Dad.  Look it’s Lucky..”   Buck follows the direction of his daughter’s gaze.

Sure enough there is no mistaking their famous chowhound.  Lucky’s purple collar has bunting on it and he sits, apparently quite happily holding court  while a mass of giggling girls place a pair of blue star deeley-boopers on his head.   If the pooch knows what’s  good for him he’ll make himself a little scarce later on.  The jello fight was next, followed directly by a mass hosing off.  It was going to be a mess but even Buck had to admit it looked like it would be fun.  

He turns, scans the crowd and spots Clint standing underneath the Foster’s massive maple tree.  The guy is rigging some sort of harness and rope from the thickest branch, looping it up and back again before testing the contraption’s stretch.    

Apparently satisfied, he puts his hands to his mouth and yells.   “Avengers assemble.”

In an instant every kid on the street, from a barely upright year-old to lanky,  pre-teen runs shrieking over.  He watches, amazed, as the pack lines up with military precision behind Lucky at their head.   Clint helps the first face-painted quivering little boy step into the rig and ropes him in.   Bucky squints: it’s the real thing: a proper child-size harness with carabiners, sections to belay.   Clint hauls the boy up, pulls back and lets him go, yelling at the top of his little lungs;  swinging way out over street and back.   

“Avengers assemble?”   

Jane takes a sip of her white wine and smiles.  “It’s a joke.  The kids love it… Clint calls them mini-avengers.  I think he’s a fan of the comics.   

Of course all the kids are nuts for the Avengers since the truce and press coverage of the rescues in Baton Rouge.  The Sokovia accords have died the death they deserved and now Captain America is back in the fold.   Buck watches the scene with what he hopes is taken as paternal interest.  

Mona Anderson, a perky ash blond with a kind hazel eyes, baker of the famous scones that Lucky gets each Tuesday,  smiles admiringly across.     “Clint’s very good with stuff like this.  I think he used to be in the circus.”  

Circus? Really?   That is quite the job history if it morphed into security work.  He’s about to ask for more details when he feels a rush of air at his elbow.  Kelsey is there quivering with excitement.   

“Daddy can I try? Please?”

“I don’t know honey…”  he admits, not wanting to spoil the fun but a little uncertain about the idea.  Barton appears to know what he is doing.  The carabiners are attached to  real climbing rope.  The knots look sturdy.  And seemingly every kid on the block is allowed.     “Ok,”  he relents, “but be sure to wait your turn and mind your manners.”   

Kelsey skips over, joins the line where Darcy has kindly already saved her a space.  The littlest ones who went first have already joined back in for second go.  Darcy bends down help to Billy Anderson step in.

Clint bends to say something in the little boy’s ear before walking back and giving an impressive heave.  He looks great, clad in a sleeveless T with white and purple chevrons, cut-off jeans, and bare tanned feet  The top gives an excellent view of how cut his muscles are and the summer sun glints on the highlights in his spikey blond hair.  .  ShNo doubt about it.  The guy is attractive.

A thready chuckle rises up beside.   Peggy Carter, the street’s silver-haired doyenne and oldest resident, mojito in hand, has noticed the direction of his gaze.    “If I were twenty years younger I’d climb him like a tree.”

Bucky almost chokes on a mouthful of his beer.  _Twenty years?_    Ms. Carter is quite the character obviously.   “Uh… he is in good shape.” That is an understatement.  The guy is ripped.   Damn he’s being a little too obvious if the ladies have noticed his attention, ‘though  something about the Ms Carter’s  sharp rheumy eyes suggests there are no flies on her.       

Edwina Miller leans over and places a sympathetic hand on his arm.  “Crime is down since he moved in. It’s so helpful having a strongman around the block, don’t you agree now Peg?”  

“Oh yes…helpful for so many things.” 

Peggy  salutes him with her cocktail and is clearly trying not to laugh.   With a start he realizes she’s flirting: her eyes are sparkling and one curved silver eyebrow is raised.   Bucky can’t stop the blush that creeps up from his chest.  Ok he’s a good-looking guy but he’s been off the market for so long he’s forgotten what it’s like.  The banter is fun but still he’s a little wary, doesn’t know his new neighbours that well quite yet.   This _is_ Brooklyn.  Most folks here should be ok with him checking out another guy even if his own family considered it a regretful thing that happened to other people kids.  Somehow he’d gone along, dated as expected, always worrying why he was just not that interested in sex.  Everyone said he’d caught the moon when Natasha asked him out.  Yes and she’d been his rock and his life but with time he’d realized his lack of interest had another origin- he’d been barking up the wrong tree for years.  It felt wrong to live a lie and now that Nat had found someone he was free.  Not that he’s prepared to do anything about it just yet.   Kelsey needs to be the focus.

He pushes out of his seat and goes to get another beer.  Three is about his limit when there’s parenting to do and so he sips it slowly, wandering  over to the Foster’s lawn.  Kels is now rigged up.  She is watching carefully each tie that Clint sets in, soaking up the information like a sponge.  Bucky pulls out his phone and gets ready to grab the shot when a hand brushes against his arm.  

“James…can you help with the tables, we need to make space for the band?”   Band?  There’s live music?  Jane grins at his surprise.  “Oh yes.. Eric had one in high school.  They always play.”  

“In a sec.”  He snaps a quick photo of Kelsey arching up and back.   Man.. this is turning out to be more fun than he expected.  Music, food, games and  the fireworks later in Beach Park.  According to Mona they have a great view just here on the street.  He spends the next twenty  minutes helping set up before Kelsey runs over, cheeks flushed and a smear of whip cream from a third dessert on her face.  It’s a special night.   If you can’t go crazy with the junk on July 4th when can you?

 “Dad…Dad. Clint says I can walk Lucky some days.  Can I??”

Oh oh.  Buck folds his arms and regards his offspring suspiciously.  There’d been a campaign for a pet for the last six months.  He’s not so dim as to not realize walking another dog is part enthusiasm and part lobbying.  He’d resisted, he had little time.  What would he do on book tours or at the Cons?  “I don’t know…” 

Kelsey blows her bangs up and places a pink-painted hand on her hip.  “Please…”  

Bucky melts a little.   He does that gesture too, blowing the famous Barnes forelock out his eyes.  How can he resist?  The idea that Lucky is supervised seems like a positive development    “Well. ”  

Clint’s walking over.  Bucky glances up.  He is not admiring the flex of the man’s  thighs and calves.  Not consciously anyway…

“Clint.. Clint.. Dad says I can..” 

How did they get from ‘well maybe’ to straight out ‘yes’?  Seems like his daughter thinks  she’s won.

The other man smiles down, Lucky sitting quietly at his feet.   “That’s great kiddo.. he’d really like it.” Clint runs a hand through his hair and extends the other one in thanks.   “Appreciate it man…This’ll really help me out.   I’m going to be away for a few days.   Peter who usually walks him and stuff is off at camp.”

“Uh sure…”   Bucky feels a weird tightening in his chest when he looks up into those soft blue eyes.  _Come on Barnes_.. _Ridiculous.  You don’t know the guy.  What makes you think he’s gay?_   

Buck is about to screw up his courage and ask if Clint’s going to watch the fireworks when his eyes he’d been admiring smile above the slight crinkle of his nose. It’s like Barton has read his mind.   “Uh…James.  I gotta go.  Sad to miss the band and stuff but there’s a birthday party tonight for a friend.  Midtown.   Maybe catch you some other time?”

“Sure. Birthday on the fourth of July?  Poor schmo.  Hope you all make much of him.” 

A wicked grin appears at that. It’s cute..the way the guy uses his whole face to smile.   “Oh yeah, never fear.  The head partier in our group has it all mapped out.  Dude can handle it.”  

Clint waves goodbye to the throng, whistles for Lucky and picks up his ropes and kit. 

Buck waves back…hoping no one catches the disappointment he’s struggling to keep off his face. 

Later as the first few bursts of colour begin light up the sky, Peggy Carter chuckles wryly and salutes him with her third gin.

Oh no.. she’s got it wrong.  He is totally not watching the direction that  Clint went. 

Nope.  Buck is just looking more southeast to see which way the wind was up.

\--------------------------------

By the time he’s dumped a laughing Kels unceremoniously into the empty bathtub with stern instructions to fill it and to wash any lingering jello off,  he’s heard all about the ‘totally awesome’ Darcy Lewis for half an hour straight. 

( _Have you seen her glasses Dad? they make her look sooo grown up_ ) 

Something tells him it’s a name he’ll be hearing more of quite soon.  Buck wanders back into his room, strips off his soaked shirt and shorts, feels a little slick himself between sweat worked up from dancing (first time in ages) and hosing off his girl.  They’d had fun.  They really had.  The slight band of tightness inside his chest has eased off a bit.  Maybe this would work out.  A new friend right next door and someone to help integrate at Fischer in the fall.  It’s a huge relief- would go a long way to easing the transition to the new neighbourhood for Kels.    

And there’s Barton.  That is an unexpected bonus.  Someone to hang with, who doesn’t seem to care about divorce baggage or the fact he has a kid.  Just happy to be friendly.  He hadn’t expected to makes friends himself but he has to admit it helps him feel a little more settled too.   

A soft knock sounds upon his door.  “Hey Dad…”   

“Hang on Kels!”    Bucky grabs his running shorts in a panic and hastily drags them in front before Kelsey waltzes right straight in.  Shit.  This is one of the tricky parts of parenting a girl.  She has developed a strong sense of her own modesty--god forbid he accidently walk in on _her_ \- but Dad’s modesty…well that matters not so much.  He is flustered, she’ll totally notice his full on blush.     

“Sorry!”  A giggling red head in white eyelet pj’s turns around and waits while he pulls his Jockey’s up.  It’s easier to run interference with two parents herding one impulsive girl.   “Time to get into your bed, hun…”  

Kelsey flops dramatically on the bed.   He sighs and takes the prosthesis off.  “Now…”  

“Awww..  Dad.“  She makes a face but hops off and then stops to linger at the door.  “You know.. this neighbourhood is really great.”

“Unhunh.”  He smiles: finally shrugs on one-handed a battered grey t-shirt and herds his sugar-hyped, excited girl closer to her bed.   She’s right, he thinks, planting a last goodnight kiss and turning out the light.  It is.  For more reasons that he cares to admit. 

\-----------------------------------

It’s three weeks later on a Monday afternoon and things are somewhat settling down when Kelsey tiptoes softly into Bucky’s office.  

She waits patiently by the door, keeps quiet and mostly doesn’t fidget because he’s dictating: Dragon, his voice-to-text program, needs less noise to work efficiently and he still finds typing with the new prosthesis a little slow.  Bless his girl for rolling with all of it: she knows he’s up against the September deadline.  Six books and eight years later the yearly book release is a much a part of her life as his, as regular as Santa Claus and as demanding for good behaviour.

After the last bit of the latest paragraph, Bucks pulls the headphone off and sits back in the chair, stretching a crick out of his neck.   “Hey sweetie.”    

“Sorry to interrupt Dad.  I just had a question.”  

“No worries baby.  I needed a break anyway.”  He does.  He’s been struggling for half an hour to make Scarlet Witch flirt with Union Jack.   So far the two of them are stubbornly being way too obtuse and it’s wasting precious time.   He swivels round and puts his hands upon his knees, raises one eyebrow.   “What’s up?”  Last he heard the girls were taking Lucky to the park. 

The big broad smile he loves lights up the room.   “We just dropped Lucky off at Clint’s.  He says Darce an’ I can come over…it’s hot and he’s got popsicles.”

Darce?  It’s Darce now not Darcy?  Bucky tries to hide his grin.   He can’t keep up.  They’ve become fast friends: his thoughtful but enthusiastic redhead seems to click with the bubbly brunette.  They laugh at the same jokes (Kels has his off-the-wall sense of humour), have the same stance on One Direction (thumbs down) and have spent many, many minutes checking out Toby Cavanaugh on every platform known to man.   They are also big fans of Pizza Dog.  Of that he definitely approves.  Lucky has quickly become a central part of all their lives.

 “Both of you?”  he teases,  unable to resist because these days they seem practically joined at the hip. 

“Daaad!”  Kelsey fiddles impatiently with the blue/lime friendship bracelet on her wrist.  It’s identical to Darcy’s. They both sport pizza slice and blond dog charms, both have mini soccer balls.  

“What’d Jane say?”    Perhaps Bucky should text her to find out.  He doesn’t think Kels would hide anything but there’s something just slightly off in her pose,  a slight nervousness in the way she’s shifting foot to foot.   His dad radar is faintly going off.  Their daughter has Nat’s grace and seriousness and her wickedly sharp mind, but still - the dog charm is spinning dizzily round her wrist.  

“Fine, so long as Darce finishes mowing the lawn afterward.”  

Hmmm.   This is one of those times he wishes Nat were right there to ask even though the one thing they’d never disagreed on was parenting.   It is better, divorced or not, if they both are in sync but realistically he knows he has to ultimately trust his gut.    

A little more information is required.   

“What are you going to do?”

“Hang out.”  

Buck feels a little guilty letting them just run around but it is summer and kids are supposed to spread their wings-it’s what he and Becca did when they were kids.  How much harm can a popsicle do?  And the girls deserve a bit of reward for faithfully walking Lucky every other day.

“Ok.”    Engulfed in a smothering hug Buck does his best to sound severe.   “But be back by five.” 

“Sure thing.”     

The excited whirlwind bounces out again and the screen door slams.  Buck leans over and peers out the bay window.  Darcy is already there, looking cool in the wilting heat in her white tank top and jean shorts.  It feels wrong to suspect a guy’s motives just because he’s a bachelor-Clint _does_ seem like he’s on the up and up-but they’ve only known him for a month.  Buck genuinely thinks (dog ‘parenting’ aside) he’s an ok guy and Jane did say something about Clint helping Darcy with her goalie skills.    

He turns back to his desk, sits down again and pulls up his mic, reviews the last few paragraphs but the doubt does not go away. 

He stops and sets the timer on his phone. 

Maybe just to soothe his conscience he’ll wander over unannounced.

 

\------------------------------

Clint has just about finished adjusting the girls’ stance on the “range”   a when a familiar voice calls from beyond the garden gate.  

“Hello?”   

“Back here…” he calls, motioning to his pupils to stand behind the makeshift chalk line.  It’s automatic to call a halt when the ‘public’ walk onto the range and their impromptu lesson is no different in that regard.  Clint bends down to lean his own weapon against the wall and follows Lucky’s wagging tail.    

Barnes is peering at them through the screen of Aunt Kate’s prized pink climbing roses.  He’s got a t-shirt and shorts and sandals on, long hair pulled back in ponytail.   It suits him, Clint thinks, admiring cheekbones shadowed in relief before noting the puzzled expression on the guy’s handsome face. 

Something’s up.  He’s just not sure what it is.

 “Hi”  Bucky undoes the latch and pulls the gate tight shut behind, disentangles a trailing rambled vine.  “Wanted to see what all the fun was…”

He’s rounding the path to the small brick patio when Darcy, bless her enthusiastic heart, turns back from the targets with her bow still cocked in her hand. 

“No!”  Clint calls too late. 

There’s a twang of string and an orange and black Nerf arrow fires and bounces off the dead center of James’ chest.  _Oh shit._   “Aww   Nerf..  no. ”  

Barnes looks shocked.  He rubs his chest as if surprised to find there’s no carbon shaft sticking out.  

Oops.  Darcy is giggling.  Clint’s struggling to retain a serious instructor’s face.  It’s kinda funny  but also a little worrying-he’s certainly not gonna let her try the real thing anytime too soon.  “Darcy!  What did I say about always pointing down range?”  

The brunette droops, immediately swivels to hold her toy compound toward the foam targets set up deep along the fence.  She knows she’s just messed up and contravened the rules.   Kelsey holds her own bow a little straighter and flashes her friend a small sympathetic smile.  They’d been doing well.   A few darts lie stuck in the branches of the lilac bush and scattered like funky daisy petals in the too long grass,   but most were somewhere on the target mount.  

Clint, grimaces, feeling a little guilty.  He hadn’t set a warning placard at the gate because these are foam toys.  But still.  Proper range etiquette should always be the rule.

“What are you doing here?”  Barnes demands.  His gaze goes repeatedly from the fence to the bows and back to Clint.  Then to the real bow and quiver by the door.  The guy looks pissed: his face is even tighter than the day he’d brought Lucky back. 

Oh shit… Clint had been showing the girls how to notch with his  ‘civilian’ bow.  Explaining some of the finer points of drawing.  It, of course, looks rather more substantial.

And definitely lethal in the wrong hands.   

Kelsey, sensing a need to reduce a little of the tension in the air, chooses that moment to speak up.  She looks over her shoulder to nod gently at her dad, keeps her bow and arrow facing perfectly toward the butts.  “Hi Dad.  Clint’s teaching us archery.” 

“I can see that.“  Barnes grinds out.  His seaglass eyes shoot daggers back at Clint.  “I would have thought if you were going to introduce kids to a possibly dangerous sport you’d ask their parents first.”  

Clint frowns.  He’d asked both girls to mention the afternoon’s planned activity.  Did Barton mean the Nerf or did he think Clint was planning on graduating to real kit?  Never.  He’d never do that in a home’s backyard.  He glances over at the look of thunder on Bucky’s face.   He would not have pegged him for a hothead, perhaps Kelsey hadn’t make it entirely clear,  but still: he doesn’t appreciate the glare or the tone.  “They’re Nerf!  They’re harmless. The real one was just for demonstration.”   

“Harmless!?”  Barton scoffs, stomps over and plucks the bow out of Kelsey’s hands.  He’s looking at it as if checking it for faults.  “Those harmless darts still flew pretty fast!”

Clint raises his chin. What’s got his dander so far up? Pissed that his precious offspring was not entirely truthful about their day? Kelsey does look more than a little sheepish.  So… she probably didn’t actually ask but that’s no reason to whig out at _him_.  “Hey, don’t raise your voice at me!  They aren’t dangerous.  Nerf bows and arrows don’t penetrate. They’re a toy.”

“Penetrate?”   The deep voice he’s admired so much at the Wood now drops another octave.  Growls angrily.  Oh yea, Barnes is clearly in protective Daddy mode.  His gaze looks pointedly at Lucky and back to Clint.  “They can still cause eye injuries.’      

Of all the….   “That is why they’re wearing safety glasses!”  Clint sputters, now barely managing to keep his temper down.   They are.  Both girls sport pale orange lenses and beige frames.   He pulls his own black ones down for emphasis.  “See..:”  How dare the guy imply anything he’d do would hurt his own dog?  Shocked or not, that was totally beyond the pale. 

Barnes seems to realize he has overstepped because the tight muscle in his jaw loosens a little bit and he spreads his hands.  “Sorry,” he mumbles before turning back and jerking his chin toward the gate.  “Kelsey we are going. Home.  Now.”  

“But Dad,”  big dark eyes widen pleadingly, “it’s my fault.  I didn’t say.” 

The excuse does not seem to matter.  Barnes crosses his arms across his chest and looks flatly at his kid.   “No buts. You can explain that to your mother because if you think I’m not pleased, just wait ‘til she finds out.”   

Kelsey pales.  Clint and Darcy watch silently as she does exactly as instructed earlier.  Unnotches her arrow, slides it carefully into the black plastic quiver and lays her bow precisely behind the chalk range line.   Clint’s impressed with her poise under pressure and nods gravely as she looks up.  

“Thank you Clint.”  Kelsey says quietly as she walks past.  

“You’re welcome.”  He frowns thoughtfully watching the pair walk underneath the arch and   disappear down the drive.  Darcy has not said a word.  The youngster looks just slightly green.   He’ll have to have a talk with her.  Her misfire isn’t the main issue to be sure.  He doesn’t want her blaming herself but if she has  parsed the truth to Jane he wants it clear he’s not happy to be duped.    

He sighs, reaches out and lays a hand on her thin shoulder. 

“Anything you want to say Miss Lewis before I bring you home?” 


	4. two steps forward

It’s Tuesday morning and what sounds like a stampede of elephants hurtles down the main stairs from Kelsey’s bedroom.  

Buck pauses-waits for it- and sure enough the rumble is followed by a distinctive high pitched chime.  The hungry elephants have opened the fridge to forage and now the door alarm is going off. 

“Shut the door!!”  he hollers from the cocoon of the morning’s third coffee and scribbled notes spread all around. 

“Sorry!”    Kels’ mouth sounds full and the metal fridge door slams so hard it makes him wince.

The creak of the candy jar is next.  Girls in a growth spurt can eat their own weight in gummy bears it seems.  Carlo is downright evil to stock that stuff but it is exactly what he and Tim did as kids: trade baseball cards and penny candy.  Only now its Force Awakens packs and some ‘dreamy’ dude called Poe.   He shakes his head.  MCU he’s up on of course, but Star Wars? That was never a fandom he followed much.

Kelsey’s smile pops around the office door, followed by Darcy’s baseball cap.  “Dad…can we go over to Skye’s for a swim after we take Lucky to the park?”   

He peers down at the oblong package in her still child-like hands.  “What have you got there?”    

“Pepperoni.   In case Lucky needs a snack.”    

Very considerate of her.  He smiles to himself.   In a month Darcy and Kelsey and Lucky have become inseparable. Twice he’s had to take Kelsey’s phone away for texting after lights out and Jane has offered more than once to pay for all the lunches and dinners Darcy has at his place.  He declined of course -loves having the girls around, is more than relieved that the neighbourhood is working out.   

He stares at the two of them-standing straight with big hopeful smiles.  

“You were invited?”   The pair of heads bob enthusiastically in time. Kelsey has thankfully been scrupulous about details since _that_ day and Skye Johnson seems like a nice kid, a possible third musketeer to the team.   It _is_ hot out and Kelsey has already got her suit on underneath her tee. 

Darcy’s nods, loudly popping the bubble she just blew.  “Please Mr. B.. we are _so_ hot..”   

It is hot.  Steamy July turned into even steamier August.  He’s not quite figured out Mr. Neil’s ancient air-conditioning.  It rattles and hisses alarmingly-turning it on has become a thing for evening-cooling the bedrooms off when strictly necessary.  Their floor fans work just fine.  

He runs a hand through his shaggy hair and takes in two hopeful faces.

 “Ok.“  Buck’s back and chair are swept into a double bone crushing hug before he has a chance to nod. “Wait!” 

The girls’ shoulders sag dramatically as if stopping is tantamount to agony.  He smiles.

“Do me a favour?  Bring Lucky back here afterward.   I’ll take him home. That way you get more time to swim.”

Kels’ smile is blinding.  “Dad you are the best…”

“I am.  And don’t forget spit out your gum before you get near the pool!”   

The partners in crime wave acknowledgement and the house settles in their wake.  Buck turns back to chapter six of Avengers Academy: Infinity Files.   He feels a little guilty that he did not take Kelsey away for the long weekend but he must get the edits done and has already made plans to make it up to her.  The week between Christmas and New Year’s is all mapped out.  And tickets to Hawaii booked.  

Time flies.  The girls come back, hop on their bikes and take off down the street, towels around their shoulders,  the smaller girl pedalling hard to keep up with Kelsey’s teen size bike.    Darcy’s still sports a few pieces of red streamer from the party. 

“Come on boy.”  Buck grabs the purple leash and follows Lucky’s easy lope.  He’s been thinking about this most of the day.  Feeling bad about how the other day went down, for how angry he was, when really no harm was done.   He and Nat had had a long chat after Kelsey had phoned her mum to admit to her mistake.  Ultimately it was a small speed bump. Yes Kels had not been as forthcoming as she should (and neither, truth be told, had Darcy), but she was nearing the developmental stage where making her own decisions was a programmed _need_.   What she needed were tools to understand which decisions were appropriate to make.  

As well as role models of appropriate apology when one has made a mistake.

Time to man up and climb down from too high a horse.

At the oak door he knocks.  Clint answers.  He’s clad in a pale purple T-shirt and ripped athletic shorts, sports a white bandage around his right hand and band-aid across his nose.  His cheek is purple and it has a scrape. 

 _Wtf… again?_ How does Barton get banged up nearly every week?  Bucky takes in the pattern of the livid bruising.  Sure looks like the guy has been punched. Maybe he boxes a little too seriously but that seems odd for someone who values the skill in his hands…

Clint moves aside and Lucky slips past, heading for the back room and the couch. Inside the hall black duffel bags litter the dark wood floor.  The place is a mess.  Blue eyes narrow warily above a steaming coffee cup.   “What’s up?”

‘Uh…hi…”  It’s not easy admitting he screwed up.  Buck clears his throat and tries again.   “Look.. I was surprised, over-reacted a bit.  Want to say I’m sorry.”

“Uh…”  Clint blinks, gingerly shifts his coffee to his right and slowly rubs his uninjured hand across his face. He looks tired, as if he’s been ten rounds with someone, and his hair is a spikey mess.  Buck realizes he woke him up.  And surprised him with his words.    

“Thanks.  Good of you. I. uh.. I’m sorry too.  I should have thought how it looked. Archery is my thing.  I know it’s unusual, but I do know what I’m doing.  Should have checked that the girls really asked.”

Buck blows out a breath he didn’t realize that he’d been holding.   “Kelsey just asked if she could go over for a popsicle.  She probably knew I might say no.”   There, he’d said it.  He’s not a perfect dad and he’s got a pre-teen on his hands.  New territory.  Teenhood and divorce.      “I’m new to this single parenting thing.  I just worry constantly about making the right decision.”

Clint quirks a slow half smile and leans against the door.  His bad hand is cradled to his chest and he takes a thoughtful sip.  “From where I sit sure looks like you’re doing fine.  She’s an awesome kid.”

“She is?”  Pride and something indefinable flutters in Bucky’s chest. He thinks so, but it is awfully nice to hear it from someone else.  “She is kinda isn’t she..?”

“Yup.  Sure is.   And don’t you worry about the Nerf. I am ultra-careful where others are concerned.”

“Just not yourself?”   

The older man stares in shock for a good full heartbeat or two before throwing back his head…

“I have a friend who’s been telling me that for years.” 

For some reason Bucky finds himself ridiculously pleased to make Clint Barton laugh.

 

\---------------------------------

Buck checks his phone.  5 to 10.  He is, thank heaven, just in time.  Three pages of pretty good stuff have been laid down: he hits save and backs up his back up, waits for the expected call.  Lucky should be on time and then they are mostly set to head straight out.

He powers down the Mac, unplugs it, slips it carefully into his leather satchel.  Wallet check.  Phone check.  Keys check.  It is the last thing to be loaded in the car but otherwise he’s good. 

Once in the hall he lays the satchel on the old wooden pew that passes for a bench and places a hand on the stair’s carved newl post.   

“Kelsey hurry up! It’s nearly ten.”     

“Trying Dad!  I can’t find my charger!”  The muffled, flustered response comes from the big front bedroom. 

Shoot.  They need to leave on time if they want to make the lake before the official happy hour kick off.  He tilts his head back so the sound carries up the stairs.  “Look in your bedside drawer!”  

He waits, fingers poised precisely on a spot burnished by long years of use and ponders a crack in the pastel blue wall paint.   He needs to get someone in.  Mr. Neil’s daughter did not repaint and the house could use an update inside and out.   Soon.   He’d let Kelsey help choose new colours and maybe ask Becca to give advice.   She’s an artist.  Should have an eye for what works with his new stuff.        

He checks his watch, is about to call again when the last the telltale scrape of wooden slider drifts down.    

“Found it!”

Thank heaven.  

It is time for the annual Barnes family reunion.   Becca and Bill, his mom, his aunts and uncles and all the cousins will be there.  Serious excitement.  The old family cottage on Lake Saranac is a jewel- after seventy years it’s more of a compound than a cottage, but original. Basic cabins and a farmhouse sink, not a manicured weekend home.   Water skiing is still the big draw and he is amazed that his offspring is pretty good.  He drives the boat..balancing with the heavy arm is hard but Kesley has Nat’s genes.   She’s every bit as graceful and co-ordinated as her petite and formidable mother .

He’s is looking forward to the change of scene but still a bit unsure of the reception.  It will be the first time the whole clan is together since the split.  So far not one of them has asked if he is bringing anyone but that doesn’t mean he’ll get off scott free on the interrogation. 

Not with his mom and Becca there.  His little sister at least has an inkling of how things really sit. 

Buck checks his list again. The car was loaded night before; he just needs to grab the cooler with their offerings and a last few bags.  It’s a 4 hour drive upstate.  Gonna be a nightmare getting across the Verrazano-Narrows bridge but there’s nothing for it.  Once they make I-87 North the run is straight to Albany and the Adirondacks.  Heaven…    

But they simply cannot leave before ten o’clock…

Buck checks his watch again and a soft woof soon sounds at the front door.  Right on time.

He opens the front door.   “Hey boy… come on in.”   

Over the weeks they have progressed to Lucky sitting patiently on the kitchen tile while he takes Carlo’s creation out but this time once the fresh warm slice is offered Lucky stays sitting there. 

Odd.  Of course it would be on the morning they are rushed.  

One soulful brown eye stays fixed upon the cardboard box.   

“Not enough?  Still hungry?”  Buck gestures to the counter and the blond tail thumps once upon the floor.  

“You want a doggy bag?”  . The tail thumps even harder. 

Problem is he doesn’t have a bag.  He’d used all of them for packing food-so…. ok.  Plan B.  Buck lifts up the whole round crust and the gentle retriever mouth takes a perfectly steady hold of puffed dough and cheese.  He opens the screen door and Lucky trots down the steps, very carefully; crossing the street and ambling slowly back to his home.

The entire pizza hanging from his mouth.

Jane and Edwina Miller stand in the lane next door comparing notes about japanese beetles and nematodes.  

Nobody bats an eyelid.

Jesus fucking christ this crazy neighbourhood.

\------------------------------

 

After five days of fresh air and non-stop games; late night chats on the floating dock and  seriously way too much food, Bucky pulls into the driveway of Nat’s new house just barely on time for the swap.  Kelsey hops out, grabs her duffel when he pops the trunk and starts up the steps of the glass and ochre-paneled modern box. Bucky gets out more slowly, reaching behind the seat for her backpack and thinking, not for the first time, the house looks as if it is designed to intimidate.  It’s a modern infill, one of the much-maligned new additions amongst the symmetry of classic brick, Kelsey says she likes it.  That everything is new and clean and works.  Yes… well.  He’ll take his older brick and ‘it’ll-be-done-when-I-get-around-to-it’ anytime. 

Just as he reaches the immaculately tailored flower arrangement on the stoop the blond ash door is opened by a tall and decidedly unfeminine figure.

Oh shit.  It’s ferret-face.

“Uh…hi Darren,”   he manages, proud of the steadiness of his tone. 

“James.” 

The guy smiles weakly, shows many many perfect teeth and Bucky does his best not to grimace in return.    

Middling height, wiry and with narrow cheekbones and a tawny beard like his moniker, Darren Jacobson is undeniably handsome, even polished. His finger nails look manicured, his polo-shirt appears freshly pressed He is the epitome of urbane,  attentive and organized. 

As opposite to Buck as it is possible to get.

He’s wondered more than a few times in the past few months if that is actually the point.

Long fingers stroke defensively along his beard: it’s the only sign Darren might be nervous too.   “Natasha is not here, she just slipped out to the store.” 

Natasha.  Oh.  Apparently nicknames are not to be used.  But then Darren holds the door wide for Kelsey to pass through and reaches out to take the suitcase and backpack both. 

“Welcome back sugar plum.”   

“Hi Darren.”

Sugar plum??  Bucky’s stomach twists.  Three months and the guy is already using his daughter’s pet name?  He should take it as a good sign, that they get along, but somehow it feels like theft.    He points to a dark patch on the duffel when he can trust himself to speak.

 “Her stuff needs washing.  It’s full of sand and her beach towel is still wet.”

The guy nods as he lifts a corner to inspect.  “We can handle that.”   

Of course.  Ferret-face’s tone implies _he_ can handle anything.  What is this, some sort of verbal pissing match?   Buck is trying desperately not lose it and snark right back when he catches the look of pleading sympathy on Kelsey’s face.

She gets it.  Oh god.   His brilliant girl gets that this is hard, that there is jockeying going on but she does not want a scene. 

He counts to three inside in head, forces himself to unclench his prosthetic fingers and reaches out to ruffle her flaming hair.   “Bye doll.  See you next week.” 

All of a sudden he is engulfed in a gratifyingly tight hug.  And smacked with a big wet kiss.  “Bye Dad…thanks for everything.”     

He squeezes back for all he’s worth, inhales a week’s worth of ‘Kelsey’ scent.   She comes up just below his chin.  The thought that soon he won’t be able to tuck her in that way punches him in the gut.  “You know it, any time.”   

Reluctantly he lets his daughter go and gets into the wagon as a brick wall settles onto his chest.  This is the worst handoff in several weeks but Buck is damned if he will show it.  He forces himself to honk and wave jauntily as he pulls past the massive SUV.  It’s a Volvo.  His Subaru is smaller but he is _not_ going there.  Not going to let himself feel inadequate over the size of his fucking car.

Kelsey stands on the wide limestone slabs waving until he is far far down the block.

It doesn’t help as much as it should.    

 

\----------------

 

By the time Buck lugs all the cases and bags and the cooler back inside the house, unloads the lot, washes a small mountain of dirty clothes, he is totally out of sorts.  Fuck he let that guy get so smoothly under his skin and it is a goddam waste of time.  It is not that he wants Nat back for himself-he doesn’t, he wants her to be happy, but damn it Kelsey seems just so easily settled with the new arrangement. 

Like his baby doesn’t need him as much as she should. 

Frig. 

He slips the berry pies and leftover baked chicken and ribs his Mom sent home into the fridge, slams the door so hard the milk bottles rattle.  

What is it about this time that bothers him so much?  It’s not like he _wants_ Kelsey to feel upset and teary each time he leaves.   He wants her to be happy.  Well-adjusted.  Able to cope.  She is handling it all with amazing maturity- and perhaps that is just the point.   She’s not his little girl anymore.  Neither little.  Nor entirely his. 

The thought lands like a bag of concrete in his stomach.   Unhelpfully its first reaction is to loudly growl.

He checks his watch.  Seven pm already and the last time he ate something was at noon.  He should eat, opens the fridge again and stares dolefully at the chicken.  It’s Winnifred’s secret recipe..marinated in buttermilk and coated in parmesan-herb crumbs.  His favourite.  Except he really can’t face eating all by himself tonight.  Better save it for when he’ll appreciate the treat.

Buck reaches to grab a beer instead (grain..grain can be considered food) when out of the corner of his eye he catches the water-marked coaster pinned haphazardly to the board above the phone.  

The Wood.  _Now there’s a thought._    It’s Thursday night and it should be busy enough to be comforting this close to the pennant run,  but not so busy that he can’t get a spot.  The thought of a greasy bacon burger is a suddenly welcome one. 

Well then.

After a quick shower to sluice off the suntun lotion and lakeside dirt, he runs a hand through his damp hair to settle it (time for a trim, it’s getting really long) and pads back into his room.  He clips his prosthetic back on and pulls a fresh black shirt over his head.  Jeans and tevas will do just fine.

Twenty minutes later he has greeted Mel, ordered his burger and snagged a pint, is about to sit at the far end of the bar when he spots a familiar figure slunked down in a farther booth.  And a familiar pink nose poking from underneath the table.  

Clint and Lucky are clearly regulars.

“May I join you?” 

Barton looks up, surprised and apparently quite pleased from the slow smile upon his face.   “It would be my genuine pleasure Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky slides across the bench ‘til he is too is leaning into the corner.   After a long pull on his beer. he eyes his companion apprisingly   The older guy looks tired, almost haggard really, as if he’s had a day from hell.   Perhaps they can commiserate. 

Clint looks like Bucky feels.   Minus the scratch along his jaw of course. 

“Long day?”

“Kind of. Long day is more like three.” 

Buck whistles sympathetically.  He must mean it literally.  Clint’s 5-oclock shadow is so deep he can see variations in its shades of blonde.  “And your coworkers didn’t take you out?”

Clint snorts.  “They tried.  Wasn’t in the mood for Tony’s cocktails and shiny suits.”     

“I hear you..” There are times when fancy is kind of nice but not when you’re tired and need toothpicks to prop your eyelids up. Or when you’re frustrated at another man’s perfect space.

He must have made a face because the other man’s gaze narrows thoughtfully for a moment.  Buck’s about to open his mouth and put him off asking for the dirt when Clint shifts forward and rolls a stiffened shoulder out.    Does not interrogate.   Merely raises his pint and takes a longer drink, gives the comment the hushed reverence it’s due.

Buck salutes soberly right back.   Damn but the Wood’s beer is good.   And man..he is really starting to like this guy.   

Their orders come…  The Wood’s signature burger is a gigantic half pound of sirloin and comes with a huge side of fries but Buck is more than ready for the task.   Barton has ordered pizza once again.  Hawaiian this time: Loaded with half a mozzarella wheel, chunks of ham and pineapple that is blessedly not from a tin. 

Buck grimaces and nods toward the plate.  “You know that stuff’ll clog your arteries eventually.”

Clint grabs a dangling string of cheese and winds it back on top.  “Just one of the four main food groups.  Salt, sugar, caffeine and grease.”     

Buck laughs.   ”You forgot alcohol…”

“No I didn’t.  It’s not a food group.  It’s the stuff of life.  Besides this is Hawaiian.  Pineapple counts as fruit.”  Clint sinks his teeth into the slice and Bucky can swear he hears him groan in ecstacy. 

The soft sound does something untoward to his nether regions.    

 _Whoa._   Buck hides his surprise in an epic bite of his own food, has to hastily wipe a napkin across his face because ketchup is now running down his chin.  Damn.  He’s flushed and it isn’t the alcohol quite yet.  What is wrong with him tonight?   Reacting to a guy just having a casual dinner and a pint?

 “Do you eat here a lot?”  He chews slowly, striving (and likely failing) to fake disinterested.

“Yeah.”  Clint methodically pulls pieces of pineapple off another slice before setting them to the side, He dangles the pizza below the tabletop and it vanishes in a wink.  “Hate cooking for myself.  Work’s too irregular and whenever I get back the fridge is empty half the time.”

“You seem to travel a lot.”

 “Enough.”   The sound of munching can be heard from straight below.  On a flyer Bucky takes a cooled french fry and sets it beside him on the seat.  It’s gone before he can even take another bite. 

Lucky noses gratefully at his knee. 

 “Where to ?”  He is genuinely intrigued.  He likes the travel that comes with book signings and all the rest, the excitement of new places.  But the flying-not so much.   

“National and overseas.”  Clint replies quickly but something flickers in his clear blue gaze.    The open easiness dims a shade.   Security he had said.  Probably a big corporate client who doesn’t want their details leaked.   Buck doesn’t press him (it does explain the odd time schedule of when he is around) but the other man clearly doesn’t want to talk on it more.

Bucky reaches down to feed Lucky once again and shifts his leg to reach, accidentally bumps Clint in the knee.  “Sorry.”  He mumbles, moving back and trying not to register the jolt he felt on contact.  Clint’s dressed in his usual dark tones, purple belt and black jeans and a short-sleeve tee that nicely outlines his physique.  The guy works out and looks _good_.   It’s been a while since Bucky noticed someone quite this much.       

He takes a defensive swig of beer to keep from staring too long into those mesmerising eyes, Clint looks down, fiddles with his bottle and takes in the pile of pale silver foil he’s amassed on the wet wood top .  He flushes- a most becoming shade of palest pink.  

“You do know that means you’re sexually frustrated right?”   

Bucky’s grinning.  The guy _has_ been peeling the label off his bottle the entire time they’ve been sitting there.     Clint looks down and back up to his face, grins right back, one blond eyebrow raised.  “Guilty as charged..”    

Soooo.  Obviously, he’s hit the mark.  Buck sits and admires  a little dazedly the way Clint uses his whole face to smile.  The steady measuring look he’s met with makes him feel more than a little hot. “No girlfriend for a while?”     

Clint gives a little shrug.  “Or guy…  Life’s been too complicated.”

“Been?”

“Better now.  Miss it but Lucky is pretty much my life…”   The faintest of smiles flashes across his face.  “What about you James?  No one new since the split?”   

Bucky has to remember to close his mouth.  Is Clint really flirting with him?  _Omg.._  “Call me Bucky. ”  His brain is striving to process too much at once.  James was what he had people call him when they’d just met. 

And they had just met.  A month or so ago.  Did that count? 

 “Bucky…ok”  The name sounds good in Clint’s laughing drawl as he gets up to order another round. The man gestures with his empty glass, leans in with those quick fingers to grab Buck’s empty one and comes quite unnecessarily close. 

The skin prickles along Buck’s nape.   He can smell cologne- something a little musky and a little sharp like honing oil.   His mouth goes dry.   There is a look of mischief in those laughing eyes.  Clint’s flirting. Jesus christ he _is_.

Before Buck can get his head screwed back on Clint is back, two beers balanced on top of each other and a pool cue in his other hand.   “Wanna play a game?”    

“Sure..” 

Buck is _not_ noticing a shapely ass in tight black jeans when the guy bends over to set the balls into the rack. Nope.  Not him.  

Clint straightens and hands the cue ball over.  “Your break.”   

Ok.  Buck takes a moment to grab the blue chalk cube and dust it lightly across the tip.  (the tip..jesus Barnes..ridiculous- don’t think of that), lays the white ball in the centre of the baulk line and steadies his right hand.  Drawing the cue back slowly, he pauses to line up the shot and gives the ball a short sharp hit. 

Coloured spheres scatter across green felt and the nine stripe falls obligingly into a pocket. 

Bucky straightens up, pleased with his break.  He’s even more pleased when he hands the chalk across and it’s Clint’s turn to have eyes climb hastily back up.

Well…  Mr. Barton isn’t the only one to admire his partner.  Not sure how it makes him feel.  Frightened.  Thrilled.  Inside his stomach butterflies turn somersaults. 

Only half of them are doing it in fear.

 “Care to make a wager?”   His opponent sets the cube softly down on the offside rail.

“Sure..”

“I win… you let Kelsey take Lucky for a sleepover.  He’s crazy about her man.  She said she was going to ask you for permission soon.”    

 _What, is the whole neighbourhood conspiring now?_ Just yesterday Edwina asked when was he going to get a dog.  It’s no secret that Kelsey thinks the world of Pizza Dog.   He glances over to their booth where a blond flank is still barely visible underneath.  They don’t need one of their own.  Lucky practically lives with them half the time. 

He nods.    “And if you lose?”

“You let me  cover your Carlo’s bill.”   

Buck chuckles and shakes his head.  They’ve been over this.  He is fine with coughing up for a pizza once a week but for some reason Clint keeps asking if he can pay.    “Ok…you’re on…but you got to spot me extra time to sight.  I’m not as steady with my left.”

“Sure thing.”    

Buck lines up his first shot.  The blue 5 is sitting pretty just a handspan from the nearside pocket with only the solid 3 in the way.  He crouches, concentrating, knowing his tongue is poking out just slightly between his lips, but hey, he doesn’t mind looking funny if it helps. 

Just to be sure he checks his angle twice.  Looks good.  Bizarrely conscious of his ass, he leans down, steadies his prosthetic against the top and draws the cue very slowly back. 

The white ball’s tap against the three is gentle, perhaps a little so and he watches anxiously as the 5 is struck, rolls forward and hangs suspended on the lip. 

He hardly dares to breathe.  The ball teeters… and finally topples in.  “Yes!” 

“Nice one…”  Clint nods but does not move from where he stands, one hand on his cue, the other on his pint upon the high bartable top.   He looks relaxed.  Cool.  And far too distracting for a bet.

Buck turns his attention with effort to the table.  Chews on his lower lip while he ponders his next play  The yellow 2 it is.   He walks around, scanning the best angle for the bank and finally settles on the offside rail. 

“Yellow 2 in the far left pocket.”  

He feels good, confident of his call, bends just a little farther over to avoid touching the other unplayed balls.  It’s not showing off.  Oh no.  Just making sure he doesn’t baulk.

Buck takes his shot.  The white ricochets off the rail and sends the 2, hard, toward the corner.  Too hard.  It bounces straight back out. 

_Shit._

“Nice try.” 

Another large gulp of beer and Clint is walking by, slapping Buck’s shoulder warmly as he saunters and scans the table with hungry eyes.   “7 into the offside center pocket.”

Buck’s eyebrows fly up.  That is a crazy angled shot.  _And_ two stripes are in the way.  Nice to have a guy show off to impress you but he needn’t lose to get noticed on his account.

Clint seems entirely unconcerned.  He lines up, pauses to sight.  Once. Then twice.  Huffs out a breath and licks his lips. 

Draws back and cracks the ball with force.

Buck’s jaw goes slack.  The two stripes barely move while the 7 careens into the side and vanishes. 

Clint makes the shot.  Easily.  And then proceeds to clean the table up. 

Every ball.   Every single angle.   The hands with their funny calluses are magic.  It’s uncanny.   Bend and aim.  All the shots go in- sharp and short or soft and delicate.  It doesn’t matter.  

Clint glances up.  He is supremely unsurprised to see his partner catching flies in shock.  Flashes that trademark cocky grin.  “Just can’t seem to miss.”   

The words and the smile do something that should be illegal to Buck’s insides.  Who knew a guy who gets banged up so easily was secretly a shark?

He’d feel cheated if he wasn’t so turned on.

 -------------------------------

 

Bucky pauses on the threshold of the living room, leans his good shoulder up against the jamb and takes in the happily domestic scene.  

Kelsey has just arrived for their week together and already the house is filling up.  She pats Lucky as the Lab sits relaxed and perfectly placidly at home in the middle of the floor.  A fresh rawhide bone lies beside the coffee table and a KongTM rubber chewie peeks out from underneath the linen curtain.   Buck smiles.   The accessories have become normal.  Lucky practically lives with them these days—Clint has been away a lot-- and the Barnes household now has a pair of ceramic bowls on the floor beside the recycling bin and big bags of organic, high protein, made-with-free-range-chickens kibble stashed in a handy lower cupboard. 

“To what do we owe the new acquisitions?”  he asks, walking over to run a large hand along Lucky’s flank.  The dog’s behind and tail drift up and stay—it’s the ‘scratch me’ pose and Bucky is happy to oblige: he reaches down and rubs steadily with his prosthetic metal fingers right at the base of Lucky’s tail.  A pink tongue lolls out and he swears he can hear Lucky moan happily in relief.  

Kelsey is working on the tag of an oddly recurved scoop. “I get to take Lucky this week when Clint’s gone for work….” 

Ah. Mr. Barton is calling in his bet.  ‘I’ in this case means ‘we’.   Buck ducks his head, blushing to remember the other night.  “When is it going to start?”

 “Tomorrow.  Til Monday.” 

A slight pang twinges in Bucky’s chest.  Four days.  That means Clint won’t be around on the coming weekend.  He had been thinking of asking if Barton wanted to catch a beer on the back patio.  To be neighbourly and all.  Use the space that he’d just tidied and bought a proper outdoor table for.  (Not a date.. no, no…just a chance to get to know a possible friend a little better.)

Buck surveys the small pile of doggy stuff piled neatly on the grey fabric of the couch.. 

There’s a fancy Eddie Bauer dog blanket that Clint mumbled came from someone mysteriously called  ‘Pepper’.  A well-loved chew toy of a brown bear in a mask.  The leash and a wire-looped coat brush.  Lucky’s needs are apparently as simple as his owner’s; mostly a place to flop and food.  “Have you got all his stuff?” 

“I think so.”   Kelsey bends down to clip on the purple webbing leash as Lucky obligingly turns his head.   “I’m supposed meet Clint at Beach Park right now.  He’s gonna show me how to use the new ball thrower.” 

“Ok.”  The scoop looks pretty straightforward to him but still…  “Don’t forget you’ve got soccer practice at 4 pm.”

“Daaddd..”    ‘The look’ is flashed.  His twelve-going-on-twenty-year-old would _never_ forget anything. 

Buck shrugs and fondly shakes his head.  He wouldn’t dare suggest out loud that his pre-teen is starting to become a little scatterbrained but well…she is. Gets distracted when caught up in the moment.  Two water bottles and a rain jacket have already wandered off this month. 

“Come on boy! Bye Dad.”   The click of toenails on wood floor speeds up as the pair mosey on out the door. 

“See you.”

Buck heads down the basement stairs to get some chores accomplished before he has to make it to the game.  Kelsey will need her long athletic socks that are still in the wash and he is nearly out of shirts.  He clicks on the light and walks over to the old-fashioned laundry chute.  It’s one of the quirky features he first loved about the house: a relict of another era and actually damn handy. 

He lifts the trapdoor up and scoops the mound of dirty clothes into a plastic laundry bin.  There’s  a sock snagged on a corner of the metal lining.  He reaches in and up to grab cursing below his breath because it is almost out of reach. 

Just as he’s wedged himself halfway through the hatch he hears a muffled, insistent ping. 

 _Hunh?_   The noise comes from somewhere inside the pile of clothes.  He grabs the sock, shimmies out and ruffles through shirts and pillow cases, finally pulling out the jean capris Kelsey wore the day before- there are grass stains on the knees and sure enough, her phone is in the pocket. 

Oh oh.... good chance she might need it for the afternoon.  He pauses to slip it into his own pants pocket and quickly roots through the pile for the socks. Chucks them and other white dirty things into the machine with soap.  The quick wash option will have to do. 

In five minutes he’s grabbed his own phone and keys and heads west, down 13th Avenue for the change of pace, past the Ink Works studio and the spire of St Bernadette’s.  It’s a bright and not too muggy afternoon and the play structure at the park’s main entrance is packed to the brim.  There’s just a few weeks left before the start of school:  the kids are excited to squeeze in every drop of fun.  Benches are full and the competition on the Bocce pitch is steep. 

Buck winds his way onto the bowling green before pausing to send a text. _ <where are u?>_

Clint’s response is nearly instantaneous   _< off leash zone… Cropsey Ave.> _

Sure enough that is where he finds them.   Kelsey holds the bright green plastic throwing wand.  At Clint’s nod she flings it and a battered tennis ball soars high.  Lucky speeds away, going zero to sixty at an impressive speed considering he is technically middle-aged.  Or so they think.  Clint rescued Lucky from an abusive owner several years before-they don’t really know how old he is but the vet suspects he’s five.  Old enough to start to slow down a bit, though there is no evidence of that.  The daily rounds must agree with him. 

A bright, excited face turns his way.  “Hi Dad.”

Clint glances over and waves a hand above his head.  “Hey dude…”

“Hey Clint, hey Kels.  How’s the training going?”  

A blond eyebrow raises up.  “Dog or human?”  

Bucky chuckles. He has heard it said that the latter is more important.  “Both!”

“Not bad at all, hey squirt, once we ensured we appreciated all the fine details?” 

Kelsey giggles and Buck follows the direction of her gaze.   On the grass beside Lucky’s leash lies a small white and blue, dome-shaped machine beside a black backpack bag.  It’s got a ball-shaped hole on one side and a large opening at the top.

 The words ‘iFetch’ are printed on the side. 

“Is that what I think it is?”

Clint has an expression of exasperated patience on his face.  ““Yes. An automatic ball-thrower.  A good friend of mine bought it for Lucky as a present.  Tony means well..he really does….but Lucky’s too smart for that.”

“Too smart for what?”

“Getting suckered into needlessly working hard.  The instructions say he’s supposed to load it and deploy all by himself.”   

“He is?!” Buck’s laughing at the mental image of the Lab placing a paw on some plastic lever, wanders over to inspect but there is no button that he can see.  “How does it work?” 

“Fires automatically once the ball falls in.”     Clint pauses to pick up the tennis ball that Lucky has just placed carefully on his purple Converse and grins.  “Sort of like me.”  

He raises his arm, feins a throw but Lucky is not fooled.  He just stares intently, quivering with anticipation until Clint winds up and lobs the ball properly.  The dog is off, a blond streak across the grass. 

While they watch Buck stands beside his daughter, lays his real arm across her narrow shoulders and does his best not to gloat, turning  the errant phone in his metal hand.  “Any chance you forgot something in your rush?”

Kelsey grabs quickly for her empty pocket. “Oh shi….”

“Language.”  

Kelsey’s face is priceless: pink as the Hello Kitty on her tank top.   “Sorry Dad.  Shoot…I meant to say shoot.  I did forget.” 

“Uhmmmm.   You did.”   He ruffles her hair and pretends not to notice Barton’s smirk.    “I think Darcy’s trying to reach you.”   At least he thinks it’s Darcy, is pretty sure that ping was her special alert.

“Ooo… let me see..”  Eager fingers grab and swipe at the screen.

When Kelsey looks up again, blue-green eyes are sparkling with excitement.  “Her new kitten just got home.  She wants to know if I can come over now.”

Bucky’s voice drops a serious half tone.    “Kels…”  This is a tough one.  Of course the much talked about and anticipated arrival is a huge draw but he doesn’t want his daughter to think it’s ok to just drop her responsibility any time something more fun comes along.   “You’re busy with Lucky at the moment.  Gotta finish before you go off to something else.” 

Kelsey knows she can’t beat his logic.  He watches arguments flash through her mind as she chews on the end of a long red braid and finally rejects them in favour of a tried and true offensive play-the double pout and sigh.   “Can’t I?  We were almost done… ”   

Buck checks sidelong with Clint.  The blond barks out a laugh and spreads his hands as if to say ‘don’t look at me’.   “Hey.. I don’t mind.  Really man.   We were.”

He sighs, thinking it’s against his better judgement but maybe if they were done.. “All right.  Let’s walk you back to Darcy’s.  Got everything?”

Kelsey looks around and frowns.  Clint is clipping on Lucky’s leash, the ball and wand and iFetch lie waiting on the grass. “Not the frisbee…I’ll get it.”   She pelts off across the lawn toward the east side fence.

Bucky reaches down to pick up the wand. Clearly both of them had the same brainwave because he accidentally whacks his metal hand over Clint’s.   

They straighten up. “Oh sorry. Did I hurt you?”    

“It’s fine.  I’m fine.”  Barton’s got the tool but Bucky stands closer, checking to make sure the heavy metal didn’t scratch the guy.  He is ridiculously pleased to find he’s just a few inches taller.  All of a sudden his heart is thumping and Clint is laughing and god he’s distracted by the way the guy’s nose crinkles when he grins.

So much so that he does not notice until they’re caught.

‘What the..?!” 

Pizza Dog has quietly taken advantage of their distraction--walked around them both and plonked down upon the grass, pulling taut on the leash that is looped about Clint’s wrist.

They’re trapped.   Face to face.  Standing up. “Aw Lucky, no.”   

Bucky does not know where to put his hands.  They are almost chest to chest--he stands a little closer to avoid toppling over the strap.  He can feel the heat radiating from Clint’s skin, the warmth of his breath where it huffs softly against his neck.  Buck tilts his head, blushes as he looks down a tad and takes in those startlingly blue eyes.  Clint _is_ a little shorter but only because Bucky is longer through the torso-he can tell because their waists are almost on the level.

And oh god… so is something else.

Mortified, Buck snaps his hips straight back and Clint has to grab him before he falls. “Careful!”

“Lucky!  Silly boy.  What are you doing?  Here boy. Here.”  Kelsey bounces back in the nick of time, whistles and grabs for the purple collar, leading the culprit back around to ease off the slack.

Both men step away.  

Buck, cheeks flaming with embarrassment, studiously keeps his eyes diverted as they pack up; fixes on the horizon as they make it through the east gate and turn up 14th to head for home.  Kelsey chatters happily about the kitten, reviews Lucky’s schedule and meal times,   oohs and awws about the spicy scent of a blooming pink pepper-bush.       

Neither man sees fit to say a word. 

He’s a coward.. yup.  But he’s not the only one.

\--------------------------------------

 

Later that same night Buck sits in their dark leather armchair in the dark. 

Kelsey has long gone to bed.  She was exhausted-crashed almost the moment he’d turned out the light.   A soccer match, a hard won goal and a new kitten make for a pretty happy but well stuffed day.  They’d gone to Dairy Queen afterward to celebrate and now he’s pretty sure that between a giant ice cream cone and the giant slug of scotch he’s downing like a drowning man he’ll have heartburn with the dawn. 

Buck stares out the window and stirs the pair of ice cubes in the glass with a warm and none too steady index finger.  Fifteen years.  For fifteen years he had locked himself away.  Done what was expected in every circumstance.  Went through the motions.  Fought for a second a chance at life and loved as best he could the girl who’d most loved him.  

Gave his heart eternally and unconditionally to a squalling scrap of pink perfect baby girl.

He takes another swig.  The liquid fire burns down his throat and straight through to the problem’s heart.    It had taken him a long time to realize what he’d subconsciously not wanted to accept.  Years of disagreements.  Nat in tears, asking why she wasn’t attractive enough; him bewildered, saying over and over it was _him_ not her but not really processing what he meant.   When he’d finally drunkenly got up the courage to flirt with another guy (half a world and another press tour away) her _“I think you might be gay”_ had finally clicked into place. 

The relief had been immediate.  Nat was right but he’d been still married-no way he was going to hurt his girls by breaking up their life just for that.  They’d settled into an arid if domestic bliss.  He told himself it had to be enough.

Then Nat was bowled over by a pair of sable eyes and everything changed again. 

Free. he was actually free to live his life exactly how he chose and to his surprise he’d found he didn’t give a fuck what his father thought about his ‘lifestyle’. Cautiously, he’d embarked on a one night stand or two, paid a bit more attention to the few attractive guys who crossed his path but only since the separation.  The concept of dating another guy feels rather too abstract.   His heart still feels rather bruised.  He wants nothing serious, no ties while he gets his new found life in order.

Problem is life doesn’t always listen to the plan.

He hadn’t needed to bring Kelsey her phone that day-if he had to be honest with himself he’d admit it had been purely to chat with Clint.  Because he was going to go four days without the guy.

Somehow, without him noticing, a pair of light blue eyes have become the sight that makes his day light up.  Clint, with his wide, wry smile, and quirky sense of humor.  His adorable slight obliviousness.  His quiet competence and even quieter compassion.   

Ridiculous.  To care so much so fast.  He shakes his head and downs the last amber dregs.

He should be thrilled..ecstatic, their nights at the Wood have made it pretty clear Clint just might be a little interested.  Instead here he is, a full on _mess_ , struggling to wipe the memory of the guy from his brain and terrified by the thought.    Since when did that happen just gazing into a pair of blue crystal eyes? And feeling the warmth from a well-muscled chest?  Clint’s become such a magnet for his thoughts he reacts at the guy’s _everything_.   His smile.  His laugh.  The barest brush of skin.   

If he didn’t know better he would say it was infatuation.

 _Fuck._  

Problem is he has no idea what he wants to do about it.

And problem is he’s pretty certain that Clint reacted too.  


	5. band aids and other necessities

 

Another week, another early Saturday.   Bucky drags his hair up into a bun, adjusts his screen and settles down to attack the next thorny paragraph when the ringing burble of incoming Skype pops up on his dash.

“Hello..”

“Hey dad!”

“Hey baby girl. Having fun?”   Redundant question.   Nat and Darren have taken Kelsey away on holiday before the start of school.  Europe.  Paris _and_ Nice for ten long days.  It’s a fantastic chance for Kelsey to see the sights and he tries not to be jealous of the time or the destination.

“It’s…!”

“Awesome… let me guess.”    He’s grinning.  Of course it is.. with Nat’s legendary organization the trip is bound to go off without a hitch.   “Have you found a mousse au chocolat up to your standard?”   Kelsey has not quite embraced nouvelle cuisine:  she appears to be on the steak-frites and chocolate mousse tour of France.

“Nope!!  I’m gonna try another one at dinner”   Kelsey giggles and makes a face. He can just make out her tongue sticking out over the fuzzy feed.   “Tomorrow we are going to see naked bodies at the Musee D’Orsay.” 

“Poor poor girl. That is actually also something the rest of the world calls art.”

“Borrring….”

“You say so now..”   He is teasing but secretly is pleased the link between real boys and heart-throbs on posters or chiseled marble abs has not connected yet.  The thought of Kelsey dating makes him want to lock her up and keep Little Mermaid on endless loop.  Where did his cherub in pink princess footie pyjamas go?

 “How is Lucky doing this week Dad?” 

“Fine..fine. Carlo’s is on speed dial.   Extra pepperoni just like he likes.”   

“Mom wants to know if _you_ are eating properly.”

“Can you see my eyes roll?  I _am_ capable of cooking for myself.”  He is.  Buck’s actually a more adventurous cook than Nat.  When he puts the effort in.

“Yup.  I told her. Just I think she feels bad that we’re gone so long. ”

That is an interesting bit of intelligence. Nat still worrying about how he’s doing on his own?  He appreciates the thought-she knows the drill--that a week to deadline and somewhat still behind he’s likely to be going hard, but it’s not as bad as it _could_ be.  “Tell her I love her too.”

 A few muffled words and Kelsey’s back.   “Mum says you can show it by not being skin and bones when we get home.  I gotta go.  Miss you Dad. Love you.”    

“Miss and love you too, baby.”   With that the beaming sunshine rings off. Buck is about to pick where he left off when it occurs to him to check his watch. Jesus.  10:15.  He’s been so wrapped up he’s lost track of time and didn’t hear Lucky’s bark.  

Buck hustles to the front door and opens it. 

Peers out into the morning sun and sees no sign of dog.

 _What??_  

Buck wanders out in his bare feet, strolls casually as he can manage down to the corner.  No sign of Lucky.  Or life at the Barton house. You could bowl down the street right now and not hit anything.   It _is_ the Saturday before the long weekend and the neighbourhood is pretty quiet.  The Fosters are visiting family in Maine again.  The Anderson’s have packed up three wildly excited little boys for their first camping trip to Fire Island.  Lots of people are away and now that he thinks of it he hadn’t seen Lucky or Clint in several days. 

Maybe Clint’s gone off and taken Lucky with him?  Or is away and has someone else dog-sitting  at their house?   Makes sense.  He glances at his contacts list and briefly flirts with the idea of sending a quick text.   He’s got Clint’s cell phone in case of emergency though this doesn’t really rate.  He doesn’t want to intrude.  The guy has his life, is entitled to take holidays. May be he just forgot to let Buck know he’d be away?  Not that he _has_ to of course-just that he usually does.   

Bucks shrugs and puts the phone away.  Barton doesn’t need another nosy neighbour checking in.  Not with Peg and Edwina and Jane on his case.

What was it Peggy had said?  “Clint Barton is a beautiful disaster.”    

Well yes. 

He heads back in and puts the change of plans out of his head until the early evening. After hours of steady work Buck stands, stretches the kinks out of his back, considers going down for his regular night at the Wood.   Without Clint ‘tho it feels somehow less enticing.  Would just be a beer and the game.   He’s heavy into the latest edits anyway, should take advantage when he’s on a roll.  And what a roll.   The desk looks like a disaster zone- littered with granola wrappers, coffee mugs ; even a wine glass or two.  A handy bowl of chocolate-covered coffee beans lies empty.   He eyes it guiltily.  It may or may not have stood in for lunch and dinner too:  sometimes he gets so wrapped up in his writing that he misses dates and chores.   And eating.   All the things a busy career woman like Nat would not need to remind a better-organized and thoughtful husband.  Ruthlessly, he shoves that twining tendril of guilt away.  Nat’s better off.  Darren makes her happy.  No need to beat himself up. 

It’s just that he’s a little lonely and misses Kelsey at the moment.   And maybe Clint.  ( _Maybe…?)_     _Focus Barnes. Focus._

He stretches both arms over his head one last time, flexes the hand he mouses with and sits back down.  He’ll eat—he’ll make a grill cheese in a little while.  When another half chapter’s done.  

Might as well make the most of uninterrupted time. 

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Sunday morning dawns overcast and humid at the same time, as if   summer weather is thinking ahead to fall. Buck’s slept late.  Really late. Worked til three and now has that muzzy headedness that feels like a hangover but without the fun. 

He sits up, runs a tired hand across his face, rolls his neck on his shoulders, reaches automatically for the prosthesis and stops.  Shit his stump aches.  Maybe he should give it a rest today.  He isn’t really supposed to wear the device 24 hours straight but Dragon had cacked out and he’d been typing as fast as the metal hand could manage.

You don’t flip the Muse the bird when you are finally in the groove.

He pulls on a pair of sweats and shuffles to kitchen.  The kettle is plugged in, coarse ground dumped into the filter press and cream pulled from the fridge.  He checks for texts (there’s one chirpy one from the Louvre), waits for the water to boil and takes an experimental sniff.  Spice and grease.  Where’s that coming from? 

 _Oh shit._ He pulls open the door of the microwave and glares at the congealed remains of Lucky’s pizza in hits red and green cardboard box.

 _Damn._    He’d been so distracted last night he forgot to take it out.   For a split second considers his rumbling stomach and the option.  _Ugh no._  Not his idea of breakfast.  

Once the coffee is brewed he sits at the counter and wolfs down a bowl of Rice Krispies while flipping through the morning news.  Goes through the laborious and awkward rigamarole of peeling fruit one-handed.   Puts the dirty dishes in the rack.  He really has to run the dishwasher today:  it smells after not running it for three days and alone it’ll take him ages to  be full. 

Speaking of funny smells-- heeyes the cardboard box.  What to do with the pizza? Seems a shame to throw a whole pizza out.   It _is_ odd that Lucky failed to show and Clint failed to mention anything,  but there have been weeks when Barton’s had to suddenly go out of town.   Usually Peter, May Parker’s boy, comes to dog sit.   And Lucky still makes his rounds. 

 _Weird._ His Dad gene is itching a little bit.  If it is Peter dogsitting maybe he needs some help?  It seems silly to check up on him- the kid does have his Aunt May- but still. Something feels off.   A niggle of worry twines along his spine.  He eyes the cardboard thoughtfully.  Might as well deliver Lucky’s pizza to him.  And put his own mind at rest.   

 Before he can think better of the idea Buck grabs the box and a hoodie against the wind and hustles through the picket fence. 

There is no car in the drive but the front door is unlocked.  That’s not like Clint.

He knocks softly just to be sure. 

“Come.”  It’s Clint’s voice but achingly tired anda little weak.  The trickle of worry becomes a flood. 

Buck lets himself in and steps into a shambolic mess.  

'What the hell?!’ 

He looks around in shock.  The place is a disaster.  Every drawer and kitchen cupboard door is hanging open.  Dishes are piled up on the floor.  Clothing and blankets and dirty kit are strewn across every upright seatback.  Clint is prone on the couch, looking more banged up than he has ever seen.  A fancy souped up version of his bow and quiver leans drunkenly against the armchair.   

Holy shit…Has there been an intruder?  An attempted robbery?   

“Have you called 911?!”  Bucky reaches frantically into his pocket for his phone.  “I’m calling for help…”  

 “No!”  Clint protests loudly, starting up on one elbow and failing to stifle a pain filled curse.  

“Why not?  Jesus, whoever did this might be coming back!  Have you got a baseball bat?” 

Buck looks hastily around the room for a defensive item.   Clint’s obviously in no shape to use his bow.  He knows a little ju-jitsu (or did once) but is not so sure about his combat skills one-handed.   Surely the hearth in the living room might have a poker? 

He whips around and jogs through to the living room. Grabs the brass poker from its rack.   

Lucky doesn’t seem too concerned because Buck comes back in time to see him whine sympathetically, lean over and lick at Clint’s palm, nestling his head closer on the couch.   Clint sighs and shifts painfully a little closer. 

“Bucky. Seriously dude it’s ok. Guys that done this have been dealt with.  They weren’t here.” 

 _They weren’t?_   Then how did the place get in this state?  Buck lowers his impromptu weapon, stares pointedly at the lines of pain creased around the guy’s eyes and brow. He’s not sure who he is more relieved to see ok-Lucky or Clint.  Or almost OK because fuck the guy looks like he’s _hurt_.…

Worry and anxiety curdle in his stomach.  ‘ _The guys have been dealt with.’_   What does that mean?   And if Clint looks like this what do _they_ look like?

The mass of dark marks and cuts on the man’s face and arms make a livid map that he finds  hard just to see.   Surely it feels worse.   Bucky frowns.  What the hell kind of ‘security’ work gets you beaten up so bad?  None that he has ever heard about.   Just who or what is Clint really working for?   A dope dealer?  The Mob??  The FBI?  He looks over at the high tech, black weapon the likes of which he has never seen before.   Have they moved on from guns to arrows for the _stealth_?

“Impressive ummm,”   _biceps_ his brain supplies unhelpfully _,_ “bruises.” he says, not knowing where to look or what to say.  Clint’s chest is bare below some sort of black leather tunic and now that he looks closely he sees a swath of tape and gauze.  Underneath, blue-purple blooms of bruises cover his arms and chest and there’s an ugly slash on one side of his face.  

Obviously Clint does not want to admit more details but christ his injuries look bad.

“Have you seen a real live doc?”

'It’s just a scratch.’ 

Scratch like hell…he’s covered!   Buck looks closer.  Clint’s wrist is in a black brace that he first took for a sleeve.   Some part of his brain thinks thank god his fingers are ok-he’d be pissed if he couldn’t shoot-and then he blinks.  How ridiculous is that?

Clint shifts awkwardly once again.  Could he have broken ribs?  The guy says he’s been patched up some, but was it by someone who’s legit?  Is he trying to stay off the public record? 

“I can get my car…take you to emerg,”  he pushes, not wanting to offend but really is it worth getting septic for some flea bag’s slice of turf?

Clint shakes his head.   “Seriously.  Been taken care of.  Got all I need right here.  Lucky’s sticking by.. getting me everything I need.”    

Hunh…?  There’s a bottle of bourbon half empty by the couch.  And a white-capped plastic bottle of some sort of med.  ‘Everything he needs’  is defined as booze and pills?  “Do you even have real food here?”  Buck’s eyebrow climbs skeptically for the roof.  He wants to say Clint’s usual junky stuff can’t be good for healing but perhaps he shouldn’t be too critical of a guy banged up so bad.  

“Pizza…” 

Of course.   Bucky can’t help himself.  He laughs.  “Oh for fuck’s sake. Clint.  We don’t let kids eat what they want all the time because they’ll gorge themselves on what’s bad for them.  Man that seems to include you…”

The older guy grunts and sits straighter but does not disagree.    “Can’t  I help?  Tidy up least. ”    _Make sure that you are sleeping and eating well._    The image of Lucky carrying an entire pizza flashes across his mind.  Well at least with Lucky around Bucky knows that he won’t starve.

“Naw I got it. Used to managing on my own.”   Well perhaps.  For a certain definition of managing. 

Buck watches Clint reach out awkwardly and run a hand gently down Lucky’s head.  It sure looks bad. Somehow the question that is on his mind comes tumbling out. 

“Really what did you _do_?”  

All of a sudden a shadow separates itself from the basement steps.    “Nothing.. Mr. ..?”

“Barnes.”   Clint answers as a startled Buck takes an involuntary step back.  A smooth-faced, slightly balding man in a neat grey suit has seemingly appeared out of nowhere.  The guy was _hiding_?  Listening to their every word?  What the fuck?  

Clint heaves a heavy sigh.  “Phil.. this is Bucky Barnes my neighbour.  Bucky- Phil Coulson.   Phil is my boss. Work is …checking in on me.”

Buck meets a deceptively steady gaze, gears whirling in his head.  Phil doesn’t seem exactly menacing.  Just definite.  He looks like a bureaucrat but Buck’s pretty sure he could lose a staring contest to the man.  Or perhaps his life.  There is something assured about his carriage and that he too can handle anything. 

It is apparently a prerequisite for anyone connected to Clint’s job.

Whatever his own reservations Lucky sure seems to know and like the new visitor.  The Lab gives a happy ‘woof’ and waddles over excitedly to say hello, tail wagging to beat the band.   

Phil smiles and crouches down, gives him a fond and friendly hug, scratching the blond tummy right on cue when Lucky rolls over for deeper pat.  “Hey Lucky dog. Good to see you too.” 

The scratching continues until Lucky sighs gustily in delight.    Phil bends lower, putting some serious effort in.   The leather of a holster strap is just visible underneath the man’s suit lapel.  What might be a wire glints behind his ear.    ‘FBI’ Buck’s mind revises silently.  _Definitely FBI._

Phil straightens and smiles at him in a way that is almost genuine. “Not to worry Mr. Barnes. “ We _are_ looking in on Clint now that he’s been released.”   

Released?  The guy doesn’t say from what but now Bucks looks he sees the telltale small round bruise on the back of Clint’s other hand for an IV.  He can just guess how thrilled Clint would be to be stuck between the four walls of a hospital, cut off from his coffee pot and favourite couch but cripes--this is what he looks like _after_ he’s been treated?!

He’s not quite ready to entrust Clint to his own care.  Surely if this is from his job they have a duty to look after him when he’s incapacitated?  Bucky looks pointedly toward the sink.  “’Looking in’ does that include feeding and watering?”  If the mess sits for too much longer Clint will have cockroaches moving in.  Or rats. 

“Not to worry Mr. Barnes.  A team will be over to clean and stock the fridge in a little while.”  Something about Coulson’s adopted stance, close to the couch and in arms length of Clint, feels a little over proprietary.  It is clear his boss (or his boss’s henchman?) doesn’t want the conversation to go on too long.  To stop what?  Clint  leveling with him?  Buck finding out too much about his cohorts?  He hesitates and the faintest of smiles appears on Coulson’s face.  “Rest assured, my team and I value Clint very highly.  He will be well taken care of.” 

That sounds a little better. From the set of Coulson’s shoulders he suspects it is the best he’ll get. He glances down at Clint.  “If you’re sure?” 

“I am.”  The accompanying nod is slow.  Clint’s eyes are now looking a little unfocused- woozy-the pain meds must be kicking in.    He’s not slurring, Buck’s pretty sure he’s processing, but perhaps best to let him rest. 

And not intrude too much.  

He raises his hand and shrugs.  “Hey no worries. Just trying to be a friend.”    

Clint smiles as wide as the slash on his cheek will allow.   Lucky thumps his tail.   “Thanks man..”

“No trouble…  Send Lucky if you need anything.”   

“He will.”  A small but firm, politely impatient smile graces Coulson’s face.   He steps forward,  all but herding Buck to the door.   “Good day Mr. Barnes.”   

Buck pauses at the threshold.  He does not want to make things more difficult for the guy but it’s hard to trust in help you do not know.   “He better be.  Good day Mr. Coulson.” 

Bucky lets himself out and closes the door behind.  Looks thoughtfully back when he is past the garden gate.   The front drapes have already been pulled shut tight.

Not his business..no..  

But he knows he’ll find it hard not to worry all the same. 

\---------------------------------

A few quiet days go by and it’s past the worst heat of the day when Buck decides to make something of an effort with the front of the new house.  The hydrangeas and whatever the pale green oval-leafed things are need a trim, have started to spill across the front porch steps.   It’s awkward working one handed but there’s nothing for it.  His stump is bad…irritated but not abraded and the phantom pain has been a constant, like a companion who won’t get the hint and leave.   Last night not had been good:  he woke drenched in sweat and the sheet twisted around his waist. It took half hour of nearly scalding water in the shower to sluice the smell and taste of blood and hot rubber and motor oil from his memory.  

This happens sometimes when he is upset- is a sure sign that his brain is working on other stuff.

Bucky’s pretty sure he knows just what it is.

He bends back down, uses his hip to hold back the tangled branches, reaches in with the clippers, almost spread-eagled against the dark heavy mass.  He’ll have to pick up the fallen pieces afterward but for now he’s just focused on choosing bits to clip, so much so that he nearly misses the soft bark when it comes.  

“Hey.  You’ve almost got it beaten it into submission.   Want me to do a count of 3?  Or call it and see if you’ve won on points?”   

Buck looks up.  Clint and Lucky stand on the drive.  Upright.   Moving under their own steam for the first time in days.   Bucky’s heart is suddenly tripping unsteadily.   He’s thrilled to see Clint back on his feet and looking so very _good_.  Smiling.  The black splint has been replaced by a lighter one, some of the bruising is less noticeable.   Clint looks rested-without the pinched and pained look of when he’s seen him last.  Thank heaven.

Buck raises the clippers and puts on a mock insulted tone.  “Hey, I’m sure to win.  I’m the one brandishing a weapon.”

A smile quirks the less battered cheek.   “Remind me never to tangle with you, Plant Man.  You need some help?”    

Buck lets the branches spring back, tucks the tool under his stump and runs his hand through his tangled hair.  The guy who was recently beaten half to death is offering to help him?  How bad _does_ he look? 

 “Should you?” 

Not entirely trusting the government (or the Mob…his jury was still on out on which) to follow through he had surreptitiously left some extra lasagne on the porch and a six-pack of Ensure.   After a few hours of worrying the other night a couple of things finally clicked in his brain.  There seemed to be a statistical correlation between amount of pizza Lucky took home and the number of bandages on Clint.  He asked around discretely:  Edwina blithely informed him that Lucky sometimes took home the whole tray.  And a roasted chicken.  Wasn’t he _such_ a chowhound?    

So, Lucky was definitely looking out for his battered owner:  when Clint couldn’t or didn’t want to move.  A little light probing when he sawPeggy Carter on the street confirmed the unofficial neighbourhood watch was aware.  Clint kept a look out for his neighbours’ security and helped where ever he could.    And they in turn kept a discrete on eye on him.  

Feeding him through Lucky was just a kindness.  It let him keep the fiction that he is managing on his own.    

Clint flexes his unsplinted arm.  “I can reach with the other one.” Buck resists the urge to joke about the damaged leading the disabled.  He blows his bangs up out of his face.   May be it is time for a break.

 “Want to come in and sit down?”

Clint shakes his head.  “Naw I need to move to get the stiffness out…”

A curl of disappointment settles in Buck’s chest.  It would be nice, to take a break, shoot the breeze,  but if the guy isn’t interested?  He wonders if he’d read things wrong the other week?  Read more in to a little harmless flirting?   He does his best to look nonchalant. “Suit yourself.”

“Umm.  Buck…look.”  Clint rubs two fingers gingerly across his forehead.  “I really appreciate that you came to check on me.  Seriously.  Good of you.   But ah…  look, it’s about my job…”

Oh.  That.  Of course he’s worried that Buck will talk.  Obviously if Clint does undercover stuff he can’t have anybody blabbing.  Buck raises up his hand, shears dangling.

““Hey..it’s cool. I know I can’t say anything.  Your business.  No talk, no harm, no foul.”

If anything Clint looks more awkward at his words.  The older man runs the white-bandaged hand nervously through his hair. 

Buck swallows.  His brain is unhelpfully imagining his own fingers carding the blond locks.   

“It’s not that Barnes,  just…I’d keep the kiddo away for the next week or so.  ‘Til the injuries settle down.  Kinda hard to explain.”

Hard to explain?  Hell yeah.  Clint’s bruising had been passionfruit-toned days before but even now there is still a red-yellow more sphaleritic tinge across his face and neck.  What was Buck supposed to say?  Clint fought..what…the Russian mafia??  Thugs?  Fell out of a plane without a parachute?

“Uh..sure.. I can. What do you want me to say?  You’re what?  Busy?”

“Yeah.  That’ll do.   Kels is due tomorrow right?” 

Buck snorts.  Clint’s been around so much he’s even picked their schedule up.  “Yes but actually we’re gonna be out quite a bit anyway. I’m taking her shopping for back to school.”  

Clint groans. “Lucky you.”

Yup. Nat’s away with Darren at a cottage and it falls to Dad to find the perfect first day outfit.  He hopes it just involves pulling his wallet out.  “No..lucky her.   It’s a uniform.  I’m hoping she won’t baulk”    

 “You’d never catch me doing that.  Identical matching clothes.”  Clint shudders and Buck wonders briefly at something Jane said.   He’s not sure how much regular schooling Clint got:  a travelling circus wouldn’t have much time for studying.   “ Thanks  man.  I’ll try to text.”

“You’re welcome.” 

Buck watches the pair as they leave, biting his lip in worry.  Clint limps stiffly.  Lucky’s  just slightly out in front, scanning the space, turning his head to see out of his good eye, exactly as if he’s doing reconnaissance.  The dog might but the master sure doesn’t move like a Man-in-Black.  He’s seen American Hustle and Dog Day Afternoon-can imagine movies don’t show the real FBI-but somehow he knows Barton’s not _it_.  There is nothing about the guy that speaks of someone who loves authority. 

CIA?  A spy?  Both seem ridiculously far-fetched.  A spy couldn’t be so hopelessly disorganized. 

Exhibit A:  a stray piece of toilet paper clings to the back of Clint’s jeans.   

The black ones that nicely outline his ass.

Bucky flushes as a wave of heat slithers southward from his heart.  Did his head have to go exactly there?  And god, is it weird that the thought of taking care of the guy makes him just as warmly happy?    

“Nice to see Clint up and about isn’t it?”

Bucky starts and waves belatedly with the clippers.   Edwina smiles at him as she ruthlessly sprays an aphid-killing soap.  Thank heaven there is an overgrown bush in the way--it covers his embarrassing full on body blush-- but does nothing to untangle his hopeless tongue.  

“Uh.. yes.  Absolutely.” 

With an airy wave Edwina goes back to her morning mission.  Little red victims shrivel on glossy dark green leaves.  Something about the extra twinkle in her eyes says she knows exactly what is going on.  


	6. deep breath

 

“Dad?”  

The screen door slams and Bucky hears Kelsey’s voice retreat automatically to the direction of his office. 

“In here sweetheart!” he calls from the beside the kitchen sink.    There is just enough time to set the dirty dishes in to soak and turn off the oven before his newly minted 7th grader bounces in, red-cheeked and with auburn strands escaping from her sleek first-day ponytail. 

Kelsey dumps her backpack on the floor and leans in for a welcome hug.  He plants a kiss to the top of her head before tucking the stray strands back.

“Hey…baby.  How did it go?”    

“Ok.”   

It’s not quite the ringing endorsement he is hoping for.  Bucky tucks a finger under her chin to catch a look at that smile.  His Dad radar is faintly going off.   There seems to be the slightest droop to her normal beam?  “Just ok or OK ok?”  

“Ok.”  

‘Because?”  All is not right in Kelsey land.  The word ‘awesome’ has not been used.  That means one of two things:  her teachers suck or Darcy Lewis is not in her class.   He makes a bet on the second of the options. 

He is not wrong.

Kelsey crosses her arms and all but pouts.  “Darce is in Mr. Sainis’ homeroom class.  It’s so unfair.  I got Ms. Abercrombie.  For history and geography too,” 

Ah.  “She seemed nice when I toured the school.  Is there anyone else you know?”  

“Jenna is in my English class.”   That at least was something.  Fischer Public is a big school.  It serves Dyker Heights and Bensonhurst as well, was a former high school in the fifties.  The shop facilities and enhanced track are a plus.  The fourteen hundred odd student body less so.

“Glad to hear it.”  Kelsey turns out of his grip, drawn by the lingering scent of warm chocolate to poke at a covered plate on the counter.  With a flourish he grins and flips the tea towel off to reveal the fruit of his afternoon’s labour.   “Ta da!  Thought you’d might want a pick me up.” 

“Brownies…awesome!!”  In seconds Kelsey is wolfing down Winifred Barnes’ secret recipe:  fudge brownies that use exactly one pot, one spatula and one pan.  The easiest thing in the world to make. 

Buck pulls out two tumblers from the cupboard and pours them each a large glass of milk, slides Kelsey’s across the smooth marble before snagging a brownie of his own.  The fudgie goodness needs something to cut the sweet.  “But you all found each other on the yard?” 

“Mmph.”  An affirmitive noise comes out of a mouth is nearly too full to speak.  Buck waits til Kelsey has washed down her second treat.   “What it’s like moving class to class?  Do you like it?”  

She shrugs and bends down to pull a timetable out of her bag.   “It’s ok.  I was worried I wouldn’t have time to get organized but it’ss fine.  Ms Koretis in English is pretty strict.”  She giggles suddenly and hands the sheet across.  “Mr. Mason in math threw chalk at one boy for zoning out.”

“Oh yeah?”  Buck peruses the list, thinking he’d have had chalk marks on his head.  He hated math but thankfully Kelsey was pretty much a good student all round.  “And your gym teacher?”  He knows this is one of the make or break classes for Kels.   She’s got his athletic bent.   His onetime baseball skills-killer hand eye co-ordination and stamina- serve her just as well on the soccer pitch.

“Mr. Tompkins.  He seems pretty cool.  He’s young.”   Bucky tries not to wince.  That could mean anything under forty in reality.  In practise it just means younger than her dad.  “Oh and Peggy asked how you were.” 

“Peggy?”  

“Mrs. Carter.  She says she has a perfectly good name and we should all learn to use it.”

Bucky laughs.  Of course Peggy would be like that.  Edwina had commented she was a ‘Bletchley Girl’.  Unconventional from the first.  “Was she seeing her grandaughter off?”  Sheila? Sharon?  Buck met her once on the street and now can’t quite place the name.

Kelsey shakes her head and pauses, hand over the plate, asking silently for a third.  He nods.   “She runs the library.”     

Hmmm.  Buck isn’t sure how he feels about that.   The city’s schools don’t have enough funds to go around and more than a few positions have been cut back.  A volunteer librarian feels a little sad, as if real books are an afterthought.  As an author he’s always found there was a satisfaction to _holding_ his work that he didn’t get from peering at it on a screen.  

 “Did you decide if you want to come home for lunch?” 

“Umm.”  Kelsey looks down and fiddles with the hem of her skirt.  “Everybody seems to mostly stay…”    

They do? But the school is only a few blocks away?  He takes another look at his girl.  Instead of the usual graphic T and cargo shorts she has on a blouse and kilt, polished shoes and knee highs.  Fischer is one of the schools to have adopted a uniform.  It makes Kelsey look so grown up. 

And adds to the nagging feeling that he’s trying to hold on to his little kid too hard. 

 “And Darcy?”

Kelsey’s face brightens up.  “She says we can go once a week go to her place.” 

Bucky frowns.  He had been kind of looking forward to having lunch times together.  The idea that she wouldn’t be home every day hadn’t really clicked.   “And your mom?  What about when you are with her?”  Kelsey bites her lip.  She also hasn’t thought that far.  Nat and Darren’s place is up on 80th,  closer to New Utrecht and beside the new high school.  They are not home during the day.  Terrifying images of boys and unsupervised lunch times in Kelsey’s freshman year flit cross his brain.  He is so not ready to parent a full-fledged teen.   Maybe it’s better for her to be safe at school.  But then again that really isn’t the point.  He needs to trust his girl.

“I’ll talk to her if you want.  You could bring friends home here each week if Mom says its fine.” 

The grin and grateful kiss he gets makes it entirely worth getting chocolate in his whiskers.    

 

\---------------------------

 

Once the flurry and excitement of the first few days of school has passed Buck finds the week too quiet.   It’s wet.   And dreary.   Pathetic fallacy for the back-to-schoolers with steel-grey skies and a sharp tinge to the wind that reminds October is not too long away.  Kelsey is back at Nat’s and Buck finds himself crashing like a storm around the house, too unsettled to work on the book, too unfocused to do any of the chores that might profitably be done.

He pulls his phone out (again) just to see if he’s missed a text.  Kelsey had called the first few nights but since there’s been just one panicked text.   A wrong binder left upstairs.   With the school just a few blocks walk he’d run it over straight away.   If only all crises would be so easy to mop up.

Buck comes to suspect Jane knows exactly how out of sorts he is because she mysteriously ‘makes too much’ ratatouille and invites him over.   “Because you know it doesn’t keep.”       

The eminent Dr. Foster is a scientist, a physicist with a prestigious chair at Columbia and  although she has a full course load herher hours are a bit more flexible than he’d have thought.  Between office hours and classes and teaching labs she still seems to have one day at home a week.  Reviews and marking can be done anywhere.  And large amounts of neighbour-saving-ratatouille can be made. 

“Delicious,” Buck announces, as he lays his napkin down and nods to both the cook and the farmer.  It is. Erik picked all the vegetables from their backyard plot, even the onions and the garlic.   He wonders idly about getting his own garden going next year.  It’s not something he’s done before but how hard can it be? 

Darcy and Ian are shooed off to finish homework and then to bed.   The adults linger at the table, talking quietly and finishing the last of the cannoli he’d brought from Mona Lisa’s around the corner.  Buck accepts Erik’s offer of a nightcap: it’s a single-malt, one of his favourites and hopefully it might help knock him out.  Conversation swirls around the crazy antics of the Presidential race and more local politics: there are plans to widen the on-ramps to the bridge that might affect Jones and Carty parks;  most of the ‘hood is wary with the change.     He helps clear the table but Erik firmly dismisses his offer of helping to load the dishwasher.

“Come,”says Jane, taking his elbow after she has poured another double into both their glasses.   “It’s clearing a bit.  Might as well enjoy the night air while we have a chance.” 

They settle themselves on the steps of the wooden deck.  Bucky looks north towards the city.  The glow of Manhattan’s skyline shimmers like an earthbound constellation across the water’s dark.     

 Jane takes a sip and bumps his shoulder with her own. “How are you really doing Bucky?”

“Me?”   Fine, fine.”  The response is automatic but then he looks askance and sees genuine concern in those luminous sable eyes.  Jane is quickly becoming a good friend, not just the mother of Kelsey’s BFF but a friend in her own right after more than a few dinners and impromptu chats.  The Fosters are incredibly welcoming and generous.  He’s just not sure he’s ready to confide in anyone. 

“Divorce _is_ a huge adjustment.”   Dr. Foster also seemingly doesn’t quit.  He smiles and takes a bracing gulp.     It’s not as if he is entirely on his own.  Ridiculously he feels the need to defend his older friends. 

“My buddies have been phoning.”  They have.  Jim and Gabe could always be counted on even if they were now hundreds of miles away and leading busy lives.  Gabe had floored them all by turning his burning desire to improve the world on Washington.  The starry-eyed young intern who had toured the world with the Peace Corps was now an aid to a congressman.   Jim had followed his dream of being a doctor:  had bounced around with his residency before settling in as an internist at Fresno’s VA hospital.    

He hasn’t told either of them about his infatuation yet.

“But is that entirely enough?” 

Damn Jane for being too perceptive.  Bucky squirms.  It wasn’t.  And they both knew it.   Nat had been his everything.  He had always been focused on just a few loyal friends, had never been one for the round of parties, openings and events that go with a writer’s life.   “Not yet., “ he admitted.  “I’ll give it time. It’s just the change to school.  I’d sort of got used to our summer routine.”   And having Kelsey around.  Part of his brain wonders just how lonely the weeks will be when Kelsey’s even busier than now.  Soccer season hasn’t heated up.  And there are music lessons planned, ballet,  a heavier workload.  It’s not that he didn’t have that before, just that he’d been used to calling Nat several times a day… the lack of constant contact was good and bad.  He was free to write.  But he was also a little too alone with his thoughts.       

Jane eyes him thoughtfully.  “And Clint?”

Bucky nearly chokes on his mouthful of scotch.  “What about him?”

A small enigmatic smile flits across Jane’s face.  “Dyker is like old-time Brooklyn in a way.  A village.  Lisa at the Wood is Edwina’s niece.  I hear you two are meeting most Saturday nights.”

He can’t help the flush the creeps up across his cheeks.  Jane’s easy to talk to.  He just not sure he can speak openly about _that_.   

She sighs and shakes her head.  “Buck you need to know a few things about our man Clint.  I have known him now for the better part of fifteen years:  ever since he first moved back east and into Kate Bishop’s life.  He was amazing to her.  Nursed her through the Alzheimer’s and the end.  She was a dear, dear friend and I promised to keep an eye out for him.”   The last of Jane’s scotch is shot straight back    “Clint Barton had more than a rough start.  It makes him wary of trusting people.  And a little angry at the world.  He has a string of exes behind him like a jack-knifed semi on a motorway.  If you look in the dictionary for the definition of ‘restless’ you’ll find his picture there.”  

Exes?  Bucky’s tongue is suddenly stuck to the roof of his mouth.  “S’fine…” 

Jane holds up her hand to stop his words.   “Until this summer Buck.   For once there has not been a peep about the latest girl or guy.   To me or Peg, because sometimes he’ll confide in her.”  She turns toward him and holds his gaze.  “Clint never used to have a regular night for anything.   I’m not sure what’s up, but it _is_ something outside our experience.”

Buck throws back his drink.  Winces at the burn in his belly but welcomes the focus that it gives.

“I wouldn’t know,” he shrugs.  How was he to explain it was certainly outside his?    

Jane’s elegant dark brows rise skeptically but she doesn’t push him any more.

The moment fades just as he’d hoped.

\-------------------------

He stumbles home.   

Bucky unlocks the front door with his keys and toes his sandals off, heads unerringly for the office and turns the laptop on.  He’s unsettled now for entirely another reason but at least now with an easy buzz he might be relaxed enough to lose himself in work. 

The phone pings in his pocket and he pulls it out- wondering for a moment if he forgot something at Jane’s,  but no that makes no sense-he didn’t have a dish.   

It’s Nat.  Calling unusually late.  He’d be suspicious of a female conspiracy except he happens to know she had tickets for the Met.  As expected she is just fine with Kelsey coming for lunch off weeks.   Unexpectedly she gingerly asks what his plans for Thanksgiving are. 

“Honestly?”  He turns around, pads into the kitchen and looks blankly for a calendar on the fridge.  “I haven’t thought that far ahead.  My draft is due to Hilary.”   Hilary was his editor.  She had just given him a lifeline-a two week extension to his deadline.  It’s firm.  And he is driving hard to meet it.

“Think about it.”  Nat puts on the honeyed cajoling tone she knows all too well digs right underneath his skin.  “If Becca wants to do Sunday we could do the Monday or vice versa.   Kels and I would be really thrilled if you could be there.”  

Buck sighs.  It is the fourth time that she’d asked him to have dinner at their place.  Nat, for once, is being all too transparent- she wants him to like Darren.   Of course she doesfor Kelsey’s sake but seriously what would they have to talk about?  The guy is into stocks—portfolio management.  Is a member of a sailing club and has tickets to the Met.  Loves ballet almost as much as she and speaks Russian for christ sake.  He’s thrilled for Nat-he truly is. 

He just not so sure he can handle three hours feeling scruffy and inadequate. 

“Bucky….please.”

“I’ll think about it.  I will.”  He promises before sending Kelsey a virtual goodnight kiss and hanging up.   He will, but not before this chapter is put to bed.  

Bucky wanders back in to the office to face the silent accusing face of the ignored monitor.    A quick slurp from a cold coffee mug, an adjustment to the headset and he is off again. 

As usual it takes the final deadline for the juices to kick in.  Something about the company and food and booze must have loosened up his groove because suddenly the writing is like taking a drink out of a fire house.  His muse is blazing..running free and ideas are practically pouring out his fingertips.   A new guy wanders onto Avengers campus and it is takes a bit of work to keep him contained into the plot.  He has an attitude  and a shock of spikey blond hair.  And decided preference for the colour purple. 

The character-Hawkeye- is ridiculously easy to write about.  Snarky, disorganized, with a shit eating grin, a little mysterious and such crazy fun.  He’s a minor character, but now Buck’s filled two whole pages with dialogue.  

By bed time another two chapters are done and the new pupil has a pizza dog.

He laughs at his own printed draft. 

They do say write what you know. 

Or what you fantasize about.  

\-------------

 

Saturday morning he lets a wet dog in. 

Lucky completes his rounds, rain or shine, and sure enough he shows up, drenched but mission-focused as ever. 

“Thanks.”  Bucky flinches, laughing, as the Lab predictably shakes right on cue then trots ahead to sit beside microwave.  Clint must be doing better because just a slice is accepted,  and  in light of the weather, enjoyed right there on tile of the kitchen floor. 

Should he worry about when was the last time he swept (Friday night)?  On balance maybe not.   Lucky seems to have a stomach of cast iron and Peggy did drily remark that ‘the mutt” has frequented Fischer on Pizza Day and got into the garbage.

The interruption is a welcome one.  He is stuck. 

Sometimes it might have got him going again but not this morning.  After the flood of the night before no amount of staring at the screen, bashing fingers randomly on keys (Bucky has no illusions he’s a primate who will eventually produce Great Expectations) will get the plot flowing once again. 

Maybe if he gets out himself?  Last night it poured with rain and if there’s a new band working it’s way up the Delaware that might explain the pressure building inside his head.  

After a wary glance at the sky Bucky grabs his keys from the bench, pulls a rainjacket from the closet and heads out.  His back and shoulders are still stiff as hell, the prosthesis is heavy and he’s been sitting way too long of late.   Not getting enough exercise.  Time to blow the cobwebs away.

He doesn’t feel up for the busyness of Beach Park with its wedding pavilion and the sounds of thwacking golf balls, so he heads the other way. Across Fort Hamilton to McKinley Park.  It’s quieter.   The morning’s burst scared most of the joggers away.  Tennis courts are empty and just a few sodden ducks waddle by the pond, raising a ruckus.

Perfect for a little contemplation.    

He picks his way through the dripping trees toward the bench he knows sits beside the famous otter statue.   

It’s occupied.   

By a blond-haired guy and a blond-haired dog.     

Bucky’s thrilled to see that Clint’s walked this far. It’s at least a dozen blocks. He must doing a whole lot better than just well.   “Hey,” he calls out before he’s even reached the path.   

Barton doesn’t look up, much less react.  Lucky, ramrod straight and sitting at Clint’s feet as if he’s on high alert, turns his head.  Grins a doggy smile and thumps once with his tail.    

“Clint?”   

Not a twitch.  A bandage is still visible on one hand and a wash of yellow, almost-faded bruising down his legs like day-old Spencer Tunick body paint.    

Is he ignoring Buck or just lost in thought?  He’s about to give up and leave the man to himself when a worried niggle makes him try again.  He walks up and places a cautious hand on the shoulder of his slightly damp, purple T-shirt.  “Clint.”

Barton jolts and gives his head a little shake.  Looks up,  wide-eyed in surprise to see Bucky there  “Sorry, sorry man. Didn’t see you.”

Bucky frowns.  “Or hear.  You ok? You seemed pretty focused on that rock.” 

 “What rock?”

“The one carved with an otter on it.  Almost at your feet.”

Clint looks down at the statue as if it has just teleported in.  “Oh uh no..I’m fine.. just fine.”  He holds up his left hand and turns it in a passable imitation of the Queen’s famous wave.  “See… brace is gone. Just a sec. ”

Buck waits while Clint turns in the seat and fiddles with something in his ear, tucks his hair back behind and points.  “Guess the grapevine has been delinquent on that score.  I’m deaf.  Got only one hearing-aid in.  You came up on my offside.  I’ve turned the other up.”  

Deaf?!  No.. no one had told Bucky about that detail. He stares, a little shocked, at a sheepishly smiling Clint and peers a little closer.  You’d never notice if you didn’t know to look: the tiny purple hearing-aid is remarkably discrete. 

A few things about Clint suddenly make more sense.  Like why he seems sometimes oblivious.  Or instinctively happier with a wall behind his back. Where no one can sneak up on him unawares. 

“Sorry.  Just concerned about you that’s all.”  The part of Bucky that knows how trying it is explain one’s debilities refrains from asking how or why.  When Clint wants to say he will.  He gestures with his metal arm.  “I get that sometimes you want to just _be_ without the extra bits.”  There were whole days that Bucky didn’t wear his arm just for the sheer relief of nothing different or dragging weight on his back.  It had taken him awhile to accept that that was perfectly fine to feel.  “Guess we both needed a change of scene today.”     

A wry half-smile flashes for a sec.  “Yeah..I get antsy if I’m inside too long.  Only so much Dog Cops I can take before I need a break from Sergeant Whiskers.”   Bucky laughs and nods his head.  He does.  And he’s pretty certain he’d only be able to watch that show if Clint was sharing the Jack Daniel’s and the pizza.  “And you, what brought you out?”

He sighs.  “Stuck on a plot point and can’t get past.”

Clint sits up a little straighter, interest clearly piqued.  “On the book?”

 “Yup.  I need to get Daredevil and Punisher on a mission but I have no idea what type of mission or whom they’ll face.” 

“What about M.O.D.O.K?”  

“Who?”  

“Former leader of A.I.M.  Superbrain on steroids.  Thinks he knows everything. Dude likes to argue.   Matt’d run circles around him.” 

“Uh…thanks.”  Bucky pulls his pocket notebook out and scribbles a few quick notes.  He always thinks he’ll remember…until he gets home and finds he doesn’t anymore.   “Seems like you know a bit about them?”   

One shoulder shrugs.  “A little.  I’m something of a fan.”  Clint stands and places two fingers in his mouth, whistles loud and high.  Half-blind or no Lucky has gone in an instant from sitting placidly at his master’s feet to lunging pell mell at the water fowl.

 “Lucky come!!” 

Bucky wants to laugh. A piece of litter is stuck to the back of his furry butt.

Dogs really are doppelgangers for their owners. 

“Uh..Clint?”

“Yeah?”  Lucky trots obediently back and sits practically on Buck’s feet, angling for a pat.  Clint bends to grab the dragging purple leash and when he straightens the two men  are standing  hip to hip. 

Buck’s heart is tripping like a hammer.   It’s now or never.  What else is he gonna do on a rainy night except write?  A distraction will get him out of his head.  He’s been at it for days and he knows working round the clock degrades the quality.

It’s as good an excuse as any for what he’s about to do.  

“Ummm.”   Buck swallows past the Everest-sized lump in his throat.   “I wondered if you wanted to hang out tonight.”   He almost says Netflix but stops himself. That is not what he means, not consciously anyway, and he doesn’t want to leave the wrong impression.

“I’ve got Beau’s beer.  And I make a mean green curry.  Could give you dinner.” 

Clint’s eyes widen in pleased surprise. “Sure.  I’d like that.” 

“Deal.”  Bucky’s just about to say come at 8 when his legs tangle in something tight.   

 “Ow…. Fuck.”   

The ground rushes up to meet him with an unpleasant jolt but before the unforgiving pavement greets his back Clint flips them, cradles Bucky with his slighter body.   “Ow.” 

Buck looks across.   Lucky is sitting still, leash taut,  looking mighty pleased with himself.  Closer to home there’s a meltingly worried look checking out his metal fingers.  They made quite a clang when they hit the ground.   “Is your arm ok?” 

Heck his arm… something else is throbbing.  He’s all too aware that he’s lying on top of the other man.  And that an embarrassing liquid warm is flaring up his throat.    

“It’s fine, can take a workout.”   Of all days to have his hair tied up.  Nowhere to hide his face.   He looks over to the architect of their predicament.  The dog is what?  Jealous?  Protecting Clint?  “Lucky seems to do this every time we stand too close.”  

Clint gives a rueful snort.  “Man I didn’t teach him… mind of his own is what he’s got.”   There’s an awkward shift and the throbbing sensation intensifies.  He is heavy but Clint doesn’t seem to want him to move.  One hand is still on clutched protectively on his prosthetic shoulder.  The other lies blazing on his hip.   

And a question, hesitant but hopeful, flickers in ocean eyes.  

Bucky licks his lips. Nods. Lets himself be drawn down, pliant, heart stuttering, shifting from nervous to thrilled and terrified all at once.   It starts as the gentlest press.  Clint lips are soft, surprisingly warm and smooth,  and Buck wants to laugh but doesn’t trust how wild it might come out.  The guy who’s nicked like crazy everywhere has lips like butter, like suede and featherdown and cotton-top white clouds.   He wants to lose himself in their sweetness.  Dive down and never come up for air. Explore….

He feels a smile spread along those lips.  A hand brushes tentatively across his cheek.   “Bucky.  Not here.”  

They _are_ in the middle of a public park. 

In a daze they right themselves, retrieve his fallen jacket, stroll past the quizzical ducks with  giddy awareness thrumming like harp-strings in the wind.   

As the first fat drops of rain begin to fall all three of them start to run…

\-----------------

## 

They head to Clint’s.

He has no idea quite how the choice is made except somehow the new house is not just his and even if Kelsey is not there it feels weird to consider that the memory will linger and he doesn’t think he could. 

They turn up 14th.  The shower trickles off to merely spitting and they slow down,  start to walk.    He wonders if the people watching from the café fronts and green front yards can see the nervousness in his face.    Walking back feels like they are suffused with electricity: Buck wants to but dares not hold hands, worries that Clint will think it’s weird.   For him it has never been consciously the gender just the who; and now that who is a supremely confident, gorgeous, mysteriously employed man who wants him? 

Ridiculous.

But also extremely flattering.

Bucks steals a sideways glance and catches the faintest of smiles on a face looks way more relaxed than his would in the circumstance.  His own blood is singing in his veins and his heart might be trying to pound out of his chest.  They’re going to… what?   Kiss?  Touch?  Do more?  

The thought makes him nervous, uncertain, like a deer poised between steadiness and flight.  Clint somehow understands because his hand runs gently along Buck’s lower back as they  make it to the gate and walk inside.  That touch steadies him like nothing else but in truth it isn’t quite enough.

He is not sure anything could have prepared him for all of this.

They enter below crisp Victorian gingerbread into a dim and hushed, almost expectant space.   Clint drops Lucky’s leash and picks up a ragged towel by the door, rubs Lucky down because whatever is happening here a man’s responsibility (canine or human) comes first.

Buck fidgets while the sound of a collar jingling echoes overloud.  He makes a circle of the sitting room, picks up and inspects the stray bits and ends- a fancy remote that looks like some futuristic instrument, a set of shells from an unknown beach, a sparkling piece of some mineral he can’t identify.  Clint lets him float…untethered…. pulls open the fridge and grabs a beer.

Lucky, oblivious or disinterested, moves on to nosing hopefully at the food bowl by the back door.  Bucky swears the resulting crunch of kibble sounds annoyed.

“Want one?”  

He flinches at the sudden sound and nods.  Their fingers brush as he takes the cool glass in hand and that is torture too- it makes him _want._   Have those fingers everywhere.  The beer drains in two swift gulps.   Back to being nosy, the writer’s mind focuses on describing the surrounding scene.

‘Inexperienced neophyte searches for inspiration below a rock”    or

‘Nervous nellie looks for any excuse not to sit’

Buck jumps when the fridge door slams.   Clint takes his own more measured swig and he finds himself focusing on the graceful archer fingers.  They are slim and sure and he wants to have them playing on his over-heated skin.  This feels intense.   Wild.   A little out of control: certainly more than he’s ever felt before and thus more dangerous.  He wants it.  Oh god he does and it makes him so much more vulnerable.  What if Clint is turned off by all his scars?  What if his stump is revolting and his lack of knowledge beyond pathetic?   The guy is what… forty?  Has probably had a dozen lovers in his time.  Jane has said as much and he isn’t sure if that makes him reassured or more nervous.

The faint tinge of amusement on Clint’s lips presses into a flat careful stare. Something of Buck’s thoughts must be playing on his face because now the other man’s gaze turns cool and analytical, as if he is sizing up what to say.  

Buck holds his breath, rejection is about to be served, but when the words come they are said with a world of sympathy.  “I see better from a distance Buck… but even I can tell what’s going on.”

He can?  Shit. It’s pretty clear he has a ridiculously nervous prospective partner, perhaps that’s not so attractive after all.  Bucky starts to stammer an apology but Clint closes the distance between them,  takes the empty bottle from his hand and sets it, wet ring bedammed, upon the wooden side table.   

Raises his other hand slowly up to slide it gently up Buck’s chest.   “You.  I want you.  And no one else.” 

Bucky gasps, unable to meet glittering seaspray eyes.  It is a good thing Clint has both hands on his chest or it is possible he might fall over a second time.   “You do?” 

“Yes…”   A shock like lightening pulses through his blood as Clint’s gaze drops to his mouth.  

Oh gods.  It is actually going to be happening.  Buck holds himself very still and waits for the collision.  Clint’s lip this time are firm, just right to push against and what starts as cautious exploration opens, deepens, becomes a full on fevered press. It is electrifying.   Between one moment and the next he finds a little courage, lets his hands, one heated and soft; the other steel and cool, yank Clint’s shirt from out of his waistband, search cautiously for purchase underneath his briefs.  The dimly turning part of Buck’s brain tells him to pull back - he should be careful- he’s never caressed someone with the new prosthesis on, it’s not quite clear how it will feel but then, from the full on growl rising in Clint’s throat the sensation must be adequate.  

He lets his lips crash back again and this time nearly melts: Clint’s tongue has slid in and it sends a rush of spreading need along the surface of his skin.  A welcome coolness bathes where hands explore and now he feels strong fingers grip his hips.  The little calluses on the fingertips are rough, just pleasantly so, sharp enough to remind him something is truly happening. 

Because this is not a dream.      

It is not, but then suddenly the axis of the real world tilts; becomes supple purple leather and worn soft cotton and a burn of carpet below his ankle.  Clint has one arm around his shoulders and another trying to break their fall.  They wind up more or less horizontal..splayed across the couch. 

Buck’s jeans and briefs have sagged about his thighs; hIs fly open of its own accord and the purple leash is wrapped around their feet.  Lucky stands at eye level, tail wagging, doggy grin wide and faintly kibble-tinged.

He looks all too pleased with his feat.

Clint, on top and grinning ruefully, shakes his head and sighs.     “I swear.  Honestly.. I didn’t teach him… “

“I believe you…”   A muscle slides in Buck’s stubbled jaw.  He feels dizzy with competing needs.  The cool wash of air across his half naked stomach feels good, gentle, so necessary for sanity, but at the same time the warm press of Clint’s cock is like a brand.  He likes that he can feel it, knows the _he_ is the reason for Clint’s need.  The awareness of that power sets his own blood to pounding even more.

Clint leans in close, nuzzles his nose against Bucky’s neck, makes the younger man’s breath catch in the back of his throat as he clutches out desperately.   Clint is barely touching him and yet it feels like his entire body is tingling with fire.  Steel and flesh fingers both shake as he fights to keep them pressed into something: he needs an anchor even more now,  something to keep him from flying off into space, but there is only the antique chair rail on the wall and satin leather of the cushion just below. 

He sighs and twines his fingers hesitantly into blond hair.  It might be good not to rip the décor off Clint’s house…

“Clint…” Bucky breathes out, his voice trembling.

“Shh babe, I got you.”  Clint kisses lightly down Bucky’s neck, runs his hands up and underneath the wrinkled cotton of his shirt before darting his lips down to claim a kiss as slow and deliberate as their previous was rushed and heated.   Bucky leans up into it, savours the taste, the strange but exciting rasp of soft stubble, the enveloping of him and can’t help a flick of hip.   They both gasp in shock as two hot hard cocks slide against each other. 

The jolt is enough to bring at least one of them to their addled senses. 

“Shit.. he’s still fucking got us caught.”    Clint laughs and shimmies back, settles between Buck’s knees and carefully unwinds the leash, sends Lucky off with pointed finger and quiet command.  “Lie down.”  

The lab retreats to the safety of the front hall.

Next Clint spreads Buck’s legs as far as they will go and sits up, heels resting upon his knees.   He seems to be surveying options for attack and the sight of his lust-filled eyes makes Buck’s blood nearly boil.   Slowly, inexorably, the blue gaze descends.  Clint is clearly supremely flexible for he merely hinges at his hips, folds himself downward until his lips are poised inches above Bucky’s straining cock.

An eyebrow flashes upward for permission. 

_Yes...oh, gods...yes...please.   Touch me._

Had he said the words aloud?  Buck doesn’t know and doesn’t care for suddenly the other man applies his mouth.

“Aighhh.”   

He lets out a soft shocked sound, and then another.  Steady hands hold his hip firmly to the couch, warm wet lips and tongue slide over and around his cock.  It is, holy fuck, unlike the tentative exploration he’s experienced before because that tongue is curling up around his tip just so, playing with the oh so sensitive underside and dipping teasingly into his slit.    

“Aih, Clint…oh…oh  yes.”   For a man who supposedly teaches words Buck is reduced to basic monosyllables.   Clint hums happily in acknowledgement, moves his lips down, takes more of his cock into his mouth before grasping at the base lightly with one hand and sucking.  Hard.  The pressure and a sudden brush of bow callus against his balls makes Buck shiver from head to toe.  It is so good, so far beyond any sensation he had ever thought to feel, he can already feel the need to come.  

He reaches desperately to touch Clint’s cheek, pants out the words.    “ah, that, yes…please…I can’t….”     _Hold on for long._   He wants to, wants this to last, to feel teased and treasured  by hands that are anything but delicate, by lips that know the coil of delicious pressure that had begun to build.  But it is all too much:  Clint’s weight resting on his quivering thighs;   the wet warmth of his mouth enfolding rhythmically.  His mouths a warning but Clint just grins, keeps going, licks and sucks, bobs up and down until his nose presses against his hand, over and over.  Buck tosses his head, grabs blindly for the chair rail again to brace, to stop himself from thrusting up to into that luscious heat but Clint shakes his head, slides downward deeper until Buck’s eyes are nearly crossing in his head.  

It’s overwhelming-that mouth, those hands, the decadent sucking sounds, the smug hum that accompanies the darting tongue.   He can feel his balls drawing up and suddenly there is no more room.   He arches his back and with a hoarse and ragged cry the orgasm hits him like a wave.  “Clint!”  His voice is keening, high and hoarse, and altogether taken apart by the sudden shattering.

When he can open his eyes again the whole world is pale lucid blue and deep, drowning black.   Clint is so close Bucky can see the faintest edge of hazel bleed into the fingernail of blue that rims black pupils blown out wide.  Those eyes belie the stillness in the moment and Clint’s taut body.  He is waiting, focused, patient, savouring the intensity of his partner’s pleasure.  

The back side of an unbraced hand strokes gently across Buck’s cheek.  “Hey you ok?”   

“I…”  Bucky closes his eyes again.  He takes a deep unsteady breath.  His body is singing, drunk on the wash of release, warm and floating and he never wants to be anywhere else but here.  “I think so…”  

The kiss that is pressed to his lips tastes of salt and brackish tide, his own white sea, and the knowledge of it ignites.   He opens his mouth, chases Clint’s tongue, draws deeper in to hunger once again, smiling himself when a delighted smile spreads at the fervency of his kiss.       

“You make the most amazing noises.”

“I do?”  He flushes.  He’s pretty sure it flows down past his chest, because all the blood in his body is trembling in his skin. 

“You do. It’s wonderful.”  Clint is grinning.  Nestling slightly to one side, angling his weight off Bucky’s chest, he rests his head on one angled arm to proudly survey his handiwork.  Bucky becomes aware again that Clint’s cock is still hard, pressed firmly against his hip.  The awareness of it makes a new shiver race across his skin.   

“What about you?”  There are yellow-green patches of former pain to be avoided, he is almost unsure of where to touch.   Hesitantly he splays his right hand across Clint’s bared stomach, traces the soft blond line that trails to the a larger patch of curly blond.  One spot is certainly unmarked.  He strokes for the first time that arc of muscle underneath skin as smooth as molten satin.    

Clint groans softly and drops his head.  Smiles and shifts, trying to make room and then the smile falters a little bit.   “Ow.” 

Buck remembers belatedly that is the side that had more bandaging. 

He’s about to move, appalled that he might be hurting Clint when his awkward shuffles are stilled by another blazing kiss.   

“I do have a room,”  comes a quiet husky murmur.

“And new soft bed.  And there’s time.  We have all night.”    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shushup has created the most wonderful and hot illustration for this chapter. It is most definitely NSFW but gorgeous!! 
> 
>  


	7. old habits….

They spend every day of the next week together. 

A lazy velvet evening finds Bucky and Clint lying in the backyard of Bucky’s house.  Lucky drowses under the lounge chair.  They both barely fit:  there’s just enough room for Bucky between Clint’s knees and the two stare up at the stars, heels idly kicking at the metal.   The Equinox is just around the corner.  Saturn hangs above the horizon and Scorpius just below, the god of Time and a valiant warrior: reminders of the fleetingness of peace.    

Buck’s drifting; drunk on endorphins and a second bottle of red wine.   Dinner was good-rare steak and blue-cheese-butter melting across the top- the ‘dessert’ even more so.  He’d found the courage to have someone in his own bed.  It feels like a victory for his new life, as does the realization that it’s not just _someone_.  It’s Clint.   The feeling is heady:   his body is hyper-aware, buzzing with the excited thrill just to be beside the man.  In one week there’s already been an exploration of each of them, in reality and theory both. 

They had been discussing New York when Clint’s idly roving fingers had interrupted his train of thought.  Buck tilts his head to look up, focusing on the topic once again.    “How did you wind up here?”   

He hopes this is ok, has studiously stayed away from asking about Clint’s job.  Just general questions about his folks (dead), his brother (a jerk) and his childhood (orphanages-nuf said).  One wife (ex). 

Clint Francis Barton has seemingly packed a lot into his life.

A strong arm is tucked back up behind Clint’s head.   “I like my privacy.  Manhattan is too busy and I need my space to shoot.”

Buck shakes his head.  “No.  I don’t mean Dyker.  I mean how’s a guy who worked the circus in Iowa wind up in New York City?”

A laugh rumbles in the chest below.  “This city is any less of a circus?”

“Be serious, ” he protests but it is at best half-hearted.  “For me the publishing world is here.  You,   you could be anywhere.” 

“True.”  Clint sighs, plucks a fallen chestnut from the grass and tosses it lightly in the air.  It lands perfectly in an empty wineglass.    “A friend took a chance on me— convinced me to put my skills to better use.  I’m not a hero like he is but I can help.”

A hero?  Like a great boss?  Something about the way Clint uses the word he gets the feeling he means it _for real._   Buck’s itching to ask but hopes that Clint will tell him when he’s good and ready.   He lets the quiet stretch.   The crickets chirp in symphony as Lucky’s faint snoring provides counterpoint.

“What about you?” Clint asks, when he turns to ease the pressure on his hip.  Buck is getting a little heavy after minutes more of wheeling stars.  “How’d you get into writing?”

“It wasn’t what I was going to do.  I was going to be a baseball player.  Pitched little league and junior.  Scouted and everything.  Two offers of varsity.  One big league scout made noises about contacting agents.  My specialty was relief pitching: fanning entire sides when I was on.   They called me the Sniper.”   The wistful smile of remembrance falls as the Stark hand catches a little of the moonlight.   “I was a leftie.  Game over.”

“Fuck..that blows.”    

“Yeah… After the accident, after months and months in hospital, writing became a way to create my own reality.  Escape I guess.  It was addictive, imagining realities that didn’t involve painful physio and being unable to wash one side of my chest.” 

There’s a quiet chuckle at that last.   “I’m willing to help with that anytime.“

“You are?”  

Something of Bucky’s hopeful uncertainty must bleed through his tone because Clint is now running a hand reassuringly up and down his flesh arm.   “Look if we’re..”

“What?” 

 “Going to date..” _Are they?_    Buck hardly dares to breathe. 

“Maybe we should make some plans.”   Clint smiles and rubs a little harder.    “Dinner out.  Catch a movie?”

Bucky can’t believe he is hearing this.  Do they actually have a thing?   They’re aren’t just going to casually make out?  It’s what he wants—a relationship—because he can no longer imagine his days without Clint in them, but he didn’t want to assume. 

“Uh sure.. love to.  When?” 

“What week do you not have Kelsey?” 

“22-28st”

“How about the 24th?”

Bucky pauses.  The butterflies that plagued him weeks before graduate to loop-de-loops.  Oh god he is so not ready for this to be real but it feels right in a weirdly terrifying way.  His sense of self has been defined by ‘Husband’ and ‘Dad’ for so very long he’s forgotten who ‘Bucky’ is.  What movie would he choose?  What does he want to do given an entire afternoon? He needs to figure out who he is when he’s not attached to Nat.

 “Deal…” 

A quick peck to seal the plan becomes a few minutes lost when Clint dips his head to lick a stripe up his throat.  He gasps and shivers.   A breeze is rising but it is not that that makes the hairs on his forearms lift.

Clint pulls back,  gaze dark and  unfathomable.   “Bucky I need to tell you something.” 

 _Oh_. 

His breath suddenly refuses to leave his lungs.  Here it comes. The caution that this is isn’t serious.  That Clint won’t be tied down- this isn’t more than just a bit of fun.  Buck readies his own speech, keeps the bloom of disappointment from souring his puzzled smile.   

_No strings, sure thing, nothing intense.  He’s a single dad.  Kelsey comes first.  He’s cool._

Honesty is to be expected but not confessions.  

When the other shoe drops it is purple and decidedly not lined in lead.   

Clint awkwardly clears gravel from his throat.  “Just in case you start wondering why an asshole suddenly invades my brain, I…. I have a history of sabotaging my own relationships.  Just when they take off.  I suck at being vulnerable.”

Buck exhales.. the lack of oxygen may be making him dizzy or it’s the unexpected reality that Clint also wants this to work. 

Honesty deserves honesty in turn.  He turns and takes a deep breath before the plunge.  Reaches up to place silver hand along a faintly mottled cheek.

“You’re not the only one.”

 

\------------------------

Time of course has elastic properties that defy one’s efforts to contain it to neat ordered subdivisions. 

After two of months of steady effort Buck finds his next week with Kelsey is positively jammed. 

Friday she has a dentist appointment.   Saturday Lucky comes to collect his treat.  Sunday is homework and indoor soccer tryouts.  Monday the book goes in. Hilary gets the draft and he gets a preliminary two thumbs up.  

“Fantastic James.  The students working as a team to stop their evil look-alikes hooks you right away.  And Hawkeye..  great new addition. A regular teen dropped into Superhero school and punching above his weight.   Plays right into every kid’s fantasy of being an Avenger too.   And his dog.  I love Arrow.  The scenes where the cafeteria ladies slip him pizza are hilarious.”     

He blushes furiously as usual at the praise.  It’s frankly a huge relief to not to think about the Academy for a bit, to not have Steve and Thor and Tony always lurking in his brain.  There’s just cover art to review, layout though final proofs won’t be til after Halloween. 

Tuesday he gets the schedule for New York Comic Con. Thank heaven he’s not teaching til the winter term, no way he could handled it all otherwise. The book release may be six months away but early fall is the season to set up the hype.  Boards and cover designs, readings have all been done.  He’d missed BookExpo with the move: he needs to set conference plans down.   And on the subject of scheduling Becca is surprisingly ok with the Thanksgiving plans.   Suspiciously so.   He wonders if Nat called her in advance.   

Wednesday it’s parent-teacher night.  He and Nat had already agreed to do visits as a unit and all in all, it is gratifying.    Kelsey is settling in just fine.   She’s a December baby, one of the youngest in class but Mrs Abercrombie says she’s mature for her age.  Well yes,  it does go with being an only kid. Bucky tries to not feel too guilty about that.   

Suddenly it’s Thursday once again and just a few hours since Nat drove away.   This time however much he adores his baby girl Buck is guiltily pleased the week has passed by so fast.   It is the 24th.  Date night.   

When Clint had asked Buck had picked changeover night just because it might be nice to have something else to look forward to.  In his head Thursdays had become synonymous with sad.   His ritual---picking up in Kelsey’s room, stripping and straightening the bed, tidying away stray clothes-had started as a way to help the feeling of her linger for a while, but tonight he finds himself going about it purely by rote.   The space, as usual, looks a bit like a bomb has gone off (and strangely not unlike Clint’s Barton’s house).  Instead of taking his time, slowly methodically tidying, he rushes, tosses things haphazardly into corners.  Stopping in the midst of tossing a scarf over the corner of Kelsey’s mirror to regards the harried face in the glass.  It’s already 7:30 but really what does he have to do?  Find a clean shirt..socks.. jeans.   Maybe dry his hair for once?  Iron?  Settle on flesh-coloured ‘dress’ prosthetic or practical Stark metal?   It shouldn’t take that long to get ready properly but he finds he wants the time to take a little care. 

And maybe have a drink. 

There are a few butterflies to settle.  Well honestly, more like giant moths…

 He’d seen Clint only once in passing that entire week, exchanged a few quick texts. The super secret work world has been busy-it felt strange not to connect a little more- and the result was that missing Clint had been a constant, an ache and a distraction that ran like a shiver through every hour of the days.   

He is just hurriedly stuffing the dirty clothes down the chute when he discovers Kelsey’s favourite old teddy bear underneath the pile.  Button-eyes and beaten down stuffing nothwithstanding, he is the one stuffie who simply must go back.    

His phone goes off on cue.  That’ll be Kelsey wondering if the bear is there. “Hey,  I’ve got Mr. Tedums right here…”

“Do you and is he any good?” 

Bucky presses his thumb and forefinger against his eyes, a laugh bubbling in his chest.  The snarky voice on the other end of the line is Clint’s.  He should know better than to answer without checking the number first!  “God Clint, sorry no. I was expecting Kelsey.  Mr. Tedums is her bear.” 

“I got it man.. couldn’t resist.”  Bucky has to strain to catch Clint’s voice. There’s a crackle to the line and an odd roaring drone in the background,  sort of like an engine whine and the muffled sound of wind.  Where is he?  In some sort of vehicle?   They’re supposed to be meeting in an hour…

“Clint can you speak up? I can hardly hear you.” 

“Uh ok. That better?”  The sound gets a little louder, just enough to tell that that the teasing tone is dropped.  And that there are muffled voices laughing somewhere behind.  “Look, sorry Buck,  there’s been a sudden change of plans. I gotta go out of town for work.  Nothing I can do about it.”   

He’s cancelling their date?!  _Now?_   Disappointment punches Bucky in the gut.  Why didn’t Clint call before?  He tries not to hyperventilate, to count to three. To not let neediness leak into his voice.  It’s totally understandable that the FBI could get called up on an emergency.  For a security alert or something like.   Except Buck has sort of thought Clint was dealing with the DEA.  Drugs.  Crime.  Close-in tailing narcs that could get you roughed up a bit.  Somehow this doesn’t jive.  What sort of security alert gets you punched up?   “Uh.. ok I guess.  How long will you be gone?”

“I’m not really sure.”   Not sure or can’t really say?  Alarm bells start to softly sound.  Clint sounds cagey, there is a wariness to his tone that wasn’t there before. 

Riiiight.  He gets it.  He’s not stupid.  Clint’s having second thoughts.  Doesn’t really want a thing.  Work is a cover to save face.  Buck swallows and grabs hold of the dresser edge like it’s a life raft, feeling like his heart is being sucked out of his chest.   Slowly.  With a straw.

 “Oh.. I see …cool.”  Except it totally isn’t.  It’s been so long since he’d had a date like an idiot he’d forgotten this was statistically the mostly likely outcome.   Barton’s his transition guy and they never hang around.  Probably better if they don’t.   Buck can do adult, not make scene or a damn fool of himself.   It’s just… it hurts.  After the soothing pretty words in Clint’s house (his yard, his bed) Bucky hadn’t expected him to drop him quite so soon. 

The crackling voice breaks into his thoughts.  “Umm Bucky..another thing. Can you take Lucky while I’m gone?”

 _What?!_   The guy has some nerve, doesn’t even have the grace to sound embarrassed.   It’s the last thing he wants to do but how can he say no?  Buck’s not going to leave the dog to suffer because his owner is a jerk.  Clint has him over barrel and knows he does.  Shit.

 “Uh.. ok…”   Bucky walks down the stairs as he talks, trying to feign nonchalance, checking their Lucky stores.  “You can drop off his stuff when you get in. Might need some extra food to last the weekend, ” he adds, after rummaging in the cupboard.  He’s pleased he almost sounds coherent.  No need to let Barton know how much he’s come to _care_.

“Sorry but actually I’m already gone.  Trip came up very suddenly.  Peg has the extra key.  Can you grab Lucky and his stuff from the house?”   

 _Already gone?!_    Buck’s stomach lurches queasily.  Suddenly it all makes sense.  The laughter in background.  The bantering.  Men’s voices.  Work’s an excuse for a better option that opened up. 

One that involved jetsetting to somewhere else.  And other people Clint would rather spend time with.

Buck answers with as much dignity as he can muster,    It’s not much given his ego lies splintered on the floor like a shopfront after a hurricane.   “I can.  I will go over now.  Come by and get him when you’re done.”

“Thanks Buck. I owe you one.”   

 _Sure bud, fuck you._        

The line clicks off.  Bucky carries Mr. Tedums down to the hall and sets him on the bench, sits down dejectedly beside and slowly pulls on his running shoes.  Might as well get Lucky now.   Walk him down to 13th and buy more food.    It’s not like he has anything else to do and shopping might distract him from his thoughts.  

Yeah right.  He only needs to forget a quirky smile, an impish laugh and the idea that Clint Barton might ever have been his.   

Easy.  Simple as breathing.  He makes it the first stop-sign before he feels like he might be sick, has to sit down on the curb, panting quickly and dizzy for all the wrong reasons this time.      

He needs to forget them but knows he won’t.

That’s the damned thing about fires of the heart… once you set them only tears can put them out.


	8. missions...of several sorts

Barton, as always, is breathing hard between assholes popping up.   They’re coming thick and fast.  Well-armed, determined, but a brand of goon unique in his recent experience.   Post-Insight, post-f’ing Ross and his f’ing Accords, the Avengers thought they had cut off Hydra’s many remaining tentacles, were down to grappling with ex-Hydra mercs and Hydra-wannabes.   But this band had been so far dug in-camophlaged by jungle so remote and dense it was a biologist’s wet-dream- they had been forgotten by even the mothership: Hydra’s leaked files did not know that they existed.  Finding them had been a rather unpleasant surprise. The thought of a real-live unexpected Hydra tentacle roils all of them; hence the priority to hit hard and fast. 

Clint lets a batch of arrows loose in a whirling blur.  Boom.  Green choked bay doors blast open.  More idiots start pouring out and right into their line of fire.    _Wtf?_   He is starting to suspect this bunch was off the files cuz Mother Hydra was so embarrassed she’d washed her hands of her pathetic children.   Thank god.  Maybe it won’t take long to mop up here.   And get back to real life at home.  

“Shit.”    Well not _all_ of them are hopeless.  A stream of bullets sprays across his vantage point and Clint leaps sideways, releases another flight and lands down on his knees.   There’s just time to duck back behind a transport before the next volley lands.   

“Guess that woke ‘em up.”  Tony’s laughing, swooping in and out of firing range, his repulsors picking off ant-like swarming black-clad figures one by one as he flies cover for Cap.  Steve is busy knocking helmet heads left, right and center with his shield, be-lining for the hole Clint just blew and looking to lay a heavy charge somewhere inside.  After Sam’s found and copied the computer banks.  

Clint steals a few seconds peace from his new vantage point to wipe the sweat from his brow, pull out his Stark phone and swipe the screen, check for like the sixth or seventh time.    

He droops dejectedly.  

No answer.  

‘Fuck.”  It’d been 17 hours to the ass-end of nowhere before they could even begin the op and in all that time Bucky hasn’t responded to a single one of his messages.  Not the first quick reassuring note.  Or the last pleading moan that even employed emoticons.  

He uses his right hand to laboriously type out another text because his trigger fingers are covered by the shield.  It’s awkward..but  surely Buck’ll answer one of them?

 _ <Call me. Please.>   _ 

He hesitates before pressing send, finger hovering over the pad. There’s a pain in his chest that has nothing to do with 10,000% humidity and tight straps on his quiver.  

Clint Barton, the man’s who’s free as the bird he’s named for, has never cared so much about what another person thinks and isn’t that a kick in the pants.  He knows the overly positive tone to Buck’s voice had been false bravado (likes always recognizes like) but he just hadn’t had a moment to think about the consequences.  

Maybe it’s time to try another tack.   

 _< I’m sorry.>    _A surprised breath huffs out.The words aren’t so very hard to type at all. 

Clint tucks the phone safely away below his vest and hurriedly deeks out again.

The notched arrow speeds away, picks off a dude about to fire fruitlessly at Iron Man.  The need to deal with extra goons takes over.  More have flushed out of the hole and for a few moments he and Tony are all tied up, keeping the black rats from scurrying to freedom.   A posse make for his hiding spot and he knows he needs to move, find higher ground to pick them off more leisurely.  

The sudden vibration on his flank is a good a goad as any.   

He runs, dives and fetches up against one of the spectacular canopy trees and begins to climb, pausing to fire as he goes.    The nearest branch makes a safe, steady perch. Excitedly he pulls out his phone again and looks down.  

 _Shit._ It’s only Phil.

_< Sorry.  Not answering me either.  What did you do?>  _

Clint bangs his head back against the rough bark and groans.Damn. Damn. Damn.Phil he trusts to be discreet.   Getting him to get a message to Bucky was his last avenue.   This is a total blowdown.  Bucky must be royally pissed.  He didn’t mean to mess this up, not at all.  If Barnes isn’t answering him then Clint is well and truly hooped.   

It’s not what he did but what he didn’t do.Level with Buck.  Explain why.  And now he’s paying for it.   

Zing…  Clint flinches.  A stray bullet whizzes past his face.  Too close.  Time to focus on the job.

For a change of pace he pulls out the grappling arrow, swings wide and high up to a farther branch, eyes the knots of trouble before selecting one guy sneaking back to the doors.  Iron Man is wrecking aerial havoc on their getaway.  Dude must think it’s safer in the nest.

_Idiot._

The black-fletched correction gets him in the lower calf.      

Cap’s voice, mother-hen and worried, comes immediately crackling through the comms.  “Barton you ok?  You nearly missed that shot.”  

“Nothing. I'm ok.  It’s nothing.”

Sam, who’s done and just winged his way back out, hovers near enough for Clint to make out the disbelieving look.    It’s that face.  The one so steady and implacable it could stare paint from off a wall.

Clint flushes, the exact same shade as the six-toed lizard that is presently creeping up his pants. He flicks it off.  Better not tell Cap what else is here.  “I had to break a date,”  he mumbles.  "All because of these lousy smucks…”

Iron man comes screeching to a stop mid-air.  The incompetents still do not manage to shoot him down.  

“Did you just say date?  As in go out with someone and really talk?  Not just bone them and promptly leave?”

“Tony!!!!”  Sam, Steve and Clint all groan in perfect unison.

“Sorry, sorry.   But really folks….this is an event.  We are witnessing history.   I feel the need to carve the date in vibranium.   Come on Legolas fess up.  Is this that cute redhead you’ve been talking about.  Ainsley…  Isley… Ashley something?” 

“Kelsey?  Fuck No!!   Piss off, Stark.  I said she was a kid.”

“I thought you just meant younger than you.  Cuz.. oh right… they all are.”  Tony swoops past his branch and Clint’s tempted to shoot an arrow past his smug red-gold head.  “Seriously Barton.  That’s creepy even for you.”

 “Shut it Tin Man before I shoot your voice box out.  Kelsey’s like all of ten.  And my friend’s little girl.”   

“Oh jeez..why didn’t you say so.  Sorry dude…”

“With anybody else I wouldn’t have too!”

A smaller explosion than they expect shakes the surrounding leaves.   Sam takes off for the roof.     Cap must’ve found a nest.  The sound of punching is loud and clear on the comms. 

“Hawkeye…. ”

“Falcon…”   Now the therapy session will begin. Between aerial parkour, there are more questions and commentary.

“Man, gotta hand it to you.  Is your timing ever bad.   I’d even suspect you staged these idiots just to spike the date but that’s too much of a self-fulfilling prophesy  even for you.”

What the fuck does that even mean?  “Come on birdman I don’t have time to consult my psycho-babble textbook. Kinda busy here.”

Sam’s chuckle is interpersed with the sound of leather connecting on soft flesh.    “Seriously Clint, we all know you tend to get going when relationships get intense.   Do I have to rhyme them off?” 

“No!”  Christ .. Bobbi, Jessica, a half dozen others he doesn’t care to name.  Only one he’d stuck by was Kate..and that’s because she was family.  He sighs.  His stomach hurts, his chest is tight and he’s not concentrating the way he should.  Guess it might mean..what?  This is serious?  Who is he trying to fool?  He knew this time was different the moment he’d opened his front door and felt the shock of seagreen eyes wash over and into him like a surge before a storm.  Guess the joke is on himself.    

“What if I want it to be different this time?” he whispers mournfully then gasps when he realizes what he has done.  Holy fuck did that just slip out of his mouth?  Clint  considers falling off the branch.  Wouldn’t work. Sam  or Tony would only scoop him up.  And then rag him for his Cap-like sense of drama.  

“Hold on…Coming!”  commands a voice as achingly Brooklyn as the one he wants to hear.   There’s the sound of slightly faster breathing.  And even faster flying shield.  “Sam?”     

‘Gotcha Cap.”

A  blur of black and then of blue and white flashes in his sight. Steve is set beside him on the branch, slips his shield behind his back and eyes the bark a little nervously.   “Clint?” 

Those concerned hush puppy blues are dammably hard to lie to.    “Forget it.  It’s probably too late.  I’ve fucked things up beyond salvation.  He’s not returning any my texts.” 

“He?”  Steve, bless his 1940’s Brooklyn Heights heart, just nods and does not bat an eyelid.   “You really care about this guy.”

Clint nods miserably, thinking of a startlingly handsome face, a boyish laugh  and what must be the kindest, gentlest soul he’s ever met.  Despite the crap that life served to fix him with.    “I do.  And I don’t know what do.  I need help.”   

A long low whistle sounds in the comms.  “Now that is something I thought I’d never hear.   We need med evac now pronto.  Clint’s concussions on concussions are causing behavioural anomalies.”

 “Tony.”  Cap lays a hand on Clint’s shoulder and squeezes hard.  "I think it’s good that you can confide in us.  What do you need?”

What did he?  A time-turner to undo what he did to Buck?  Nope.. no cosmic cube is even gonna pull that trick. Clint lets out a shaky breath.   Maybe…just maybe he needs to go apologize in person.  Plead.   Grovel if he has to.  Go down on his knees and beg Bucky to give him another chance.  Show that he can be brave and open up his heart. 

“I want to get out of here and home.  See if there are any pieces to pick up.” 

Steve nods.  “You need to go talk to that boy.  Let’s finish this one stat.”

““Really?”   Clint looks up.  Does he mean it?  They’ll be done and head for home?      

Steve Rogers smiles, bright as the dawn and just as warm.  If Clint could be half the man he was he just might deserve someone like Bucky.     “Yup really.  Shouldn’t take too long.  We can stop playing with them now.”  

  


\------------------------------------------

  


Bucky wakes, startled and freaked, heart shuddering like a freight train on a breakaway because he’s being watched.  

Holy shit, it’s the middle of the night, there is someone on his bed and it’s not Lucky because he can hear the lab’s tail thwack against the bed post.  A weapon… he needs a weapon.  Is about to lunge below the mattress for his baseball bat when the implication registers.  _Lucky is welcoming the intruder?_  

He twists and fumbles wildly for lamp, misses and has to catch it with his right (thank heaven for switch pitching that messed with batter’s heads) before it crashes to the floor. 

The sound of rhythmic thumping gets louder.  And is accompanied by an excited whine. 

“What the?!”   Bucky blinks sleep out of his eyes.  He must be dreaming because when the wan yellow light finally spills across the bed it throws shadows across Clint Barton’s face, deepening dark smudges that hang, bat-like, below his eyes.   He is cross-legged, and scratching Lucky behind the ears with one black gloved hand.  The other holds what looks like a bow designed for Blade Runner, all futuristic and recurve.  There’s a quiver on his back and he’s jet black from head to toe:  boots, pants, arm guards, shades.  Even his arrows are black-fletched.   The only spot of colour is the purple chevron on his sleeveless mesh and kevlar vest.  

Intimidating.  Sinister.  And lethal looking as all get-out.   Lucky promptly ruins the impression by laying his head adoringly on his master’s thigh. 

 “You know I could have had my hands around your throat.” There’s the faintest of smirks on Clint’s bitten lips.   A fresh scrape on his collar bone and purpling bruises on his upper arm.  A leaf is caught in his tousled his hair and the knee of his tac pants is ripped.   

All of it is doing something to Bucky’s nether regions.    _‘hands around his throat’_    _Oh fuck Barnes don’t think of that._  

He tamps down hard on inappropriately heated thoughts.  No way he is letting the jerk know how he really feels.  Settles for asking the obvious.  “How did you get in?”

 “Window” Clint points with the bow. Buck does his level best not to flinch.  “You really should beef your up security.  And rethink your room.  And a bed right under the window gives a shooter a free sightline.”  

Bucky pales.. he’d never thought of that.  He does not want to be reminded of some of Clint’s more exotic skills and besides a normal person doesn’t need to worry about being picked off in their sleep. 

All of which just emphasizes how not normal Clint Barton is.

 “Yeah well I don’t expect dudes in leather, smelling of gunpowder and bow oil to break in.  What are you even doing here?”  he asks,  sitting farther up against the headboard, dragging the sheet higher and pulling up his knees.   Away from the figment on the bed.  How had his sleepy brain registered those smells?  And gunpowder?  Holy shit.  Has Clint just been in a firefight?

 _( It still smells kind of good… Dammit Barnes you are supposed to be angry with this man…)_ He glares just to remind himself.

Clint’s shoulders sag.  He bites his lip again uncertainly.  It occurs to Bucky all the cocky talk is cover for one shitload of nerves.  Good.  He deserves it for the crap he pulled.  

“Look Bucky, I need to level with you.”

Oh great.  Here it comes again..  He is not putting up with this a second time.  First practice round was bad enough.  “Let me guess, “ Bucky says, sarcastically.  “You’re with the mob.  Secretly run out of Carlo’s down the street.”

 “Good one.”  Clint chuckles quietly and Bucky rolls his eyes.  “You do have quite the imagination.”

“It’s my job.  I imagine stuff.   And look at you.  What are you even wearing?  Some sort of crazy Avengers cosplay?”  

“Nope.  I just happen to know a little more about your characters than you might think..”

“So you _have_ read them all.”  He suspected that was the case.  Clint seems to know more about the Avengers than the average run of the mill pedestrian.

“Uh no.  Not all of them.   Just enough to see what you do.”  Clint rubs his eyebrow nervously.  “It’s not that.  About my job… ”

 “Yeah yeah I know.  You’re a spy.  You’re James Bond.  Whatever.…  Seriously..you’ve made your point in running off.  I don’t really care.”   

A flash of bleak hurt in clear blue skies is followed by annoyance.  Clint crawls forward on the bed,  puts both hands on Bucky’s shoulders and slowly shakes his head.     “I don’t believe you.  I don’t believe you and because I don’t I’m gonna trust you.  I already tried keeping you in the dark and I’ve decided I’m not a fan.  It doesn’t work.  I don’t care if they nail my ass for this.”

“What are you talking about?”  Something about the level stare makes Bucky swallow hard.  Clint’s so close, so intent and dark, he can almost see feel how the guy wants to believed.   

“I’m an Avenger.”

“Oh fuck off.  Now you’re just shitting me.”

“No.. seriously.”  Clint fumbles with something around his neck, pulls out a high tech plastic chip that almost looks like an old style dog tag, holds it in front of Bucky’s nose.   _Agent Clinton Francis Barton.  S.H.I.E.L.D._   is imprinted on the front.   There’s a stylized eagle on a shield and a random string of numbers.  “It’s my office pass.  I don’t normally carry it on an op.” 

Buck stares at the image in some kind of shock.  “What?!  Like with Steve Rogers and Tony Stark?”

“Yup.  Special Agent Barton at your service.”

 “And Bruce Banner and Thor and the rest? ”    It can’t be.  Clint’s nodding.  Looks nervous and upset.   Suppose he would be too if it was the first time he’d ever told anyone his identity.   "But they don’t feature you on the newsreels?” 

“Nope.  I’m a  little averse to publicity.  Some of us have to do things discretely.  Kind of hard to be a secret agent if your existence is not a secret.”

Fair enough.  So far it seems to gel.   “And Phil?”

“Agent Coulson.  My handler.  Best field agent that we’ve never had.  Runs the missions I do without the team.   Maria or Nick cover the other ones.”   Maria Hill, deputy director  of SHIELD.  Nick had to be the famous Nick Fury at the top.  Bucky eyes the lethal bow.   Now he’s really certain he does not want to know what mission means.  “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because you didn’t answer any of my texts.”  Clint’s hands grip a little harder, pleadingly.  “I’m sorry Buck.  I blew it.  I should have said something before but I was afraid I guess.  Of how much I felt.  How much you mean to me.”

Bucky’s mouth is open but no sound is coming out.  He shakes his head and tries again.  “But I thought.. I thought that you weren’t interested after all.  That you’d blown me off.”

"God no I had a mission.  I was stuck heading to Timbucktu and had to split from here super fast.   I can’t promise it won’t happen again, “ he warns.  “It got real exciting once when they sent the Quinjet to the park.”    

“You mean the neighbours saw?! “ 

Clints nods. 

“And know?” 

“Not all.  Peggy.  Jane.  Ben Neil did too.  They’re very careful about what they say.  Peggy was one of Intrepid’s ‘typing girls.’”   

Bucky’s eyebrows fly up.  That meant that Peggy was part of the CIA before it was even incorporated.   “Well shit.   I’m the last to know.” 

“I’m truly sorry about that.  I promise I will learn to do things differently.”  Clint flashes a semblance of his usual wry smile. “Can you forgive a guy for being an idiot and carnie both?”  

Buck sighs.  He realizes the only thing that might make all of this hurt worse is to not try when there was a ray of hope.  The worried hopefulness in Clint’s eyes bodes well for the effort he’ll put in.    “I guess I can.”

“Mmph.”  A pair of arms are thrown ecstatically around his neck. Kisses pepper his face and throat and soon he’s laughing and fending Clint’s enthusiasm off.  The Avenger pulls up and sits back on his heels.    “I promise Buck I’ll be straight with you from now in.  I’m crazy about you.  And I know you’re still pissed with me but you want this to maybe work. ”

Bucky laughs.  The moment Clint’s kisses landed he’d grabbed his neck, held on for dear life and kissed him soundly back.   “What was your first clue?” 

A blond eyebrow raises.   “Highly trained operative at reading people.”  

Clint’s grinning, dips down again, slips his lips against Buck who leans forward to deepen the kiss.  It’s heaven, sweet and sure, and he’d been so certain it was gone, he finds his throat is suddenly gone dry and his eyes are wet.  This is real, not some figment of his desperate imagination and Clint bends lower, lays soft kisses on the hollow of Bucky's neck.  He moans softly under the gentle touches, turns his head away from Clint and has to swallow hard several times.  He does not want to stop and that’s what scares him the most.

He finds that he wants Clint’s everything. 

This is will not be slaked by a quick rumble on a couch..oh no…the need is an ocean inside, unsteady in its bed and only a deep yearning foundation can keep it still. Three hands dispense with Buck’s boxers and the too-many layers of Clint’s kit.   It's so quiet between the sighs and licks and faint telling moans that Bucky can hear the steady in and out of Clint 's every breath.  

And Lucky’s too. 

“You.  out…”  Clint snorts at the lab’s mournful face.  “I don’t care if you started this… you do not get the bed.”   Claws clack steadily on the wood.   Buck’s pretty sure if it was possible Lucky would have smirked. 

“My god you are so beautiful.”   Clint’s deft fingers come back and plough slow and mesmerizing circles across the white puckered scar tissue on his hip.  Crazy man. Buck’s graced with a lumpen stump, stripes of scar like spinifex around his torso and a mass  of jangled nerves.   Clint is all curved lean muscle and toned taut abs.  Dimpled ass and soft smooth skin.  It’s maddening, enticing, he wants this, wants Clint but then reality has him shaking like a leaf.  He rips his lips from off of Clint’s peaked nipple and pauses to gather his fractured thoughts.   “I.. I haven’t had a lot of experience.”

The smile he gets is achingly gentle and assured.   “I can work with that.”   

In one swift move Clint rolls them over in the sheets, places Bucky above, presses the gentlest of kisses to the side of a startled mouth. “Take me…”

Buck gasps. The words have just scrambled every circuit in his brain.   “I.  I never.  I didn’t think….”

Somewhere under the sheet, Clint’s hand finds his and squeezes lightly.  “You won’t hurt me.  Can you steady on one arm?”

“I think so.”   It is truly a miracle that Bucky can speak.  He exhales sharply in relief.  He will not need to make decisions.  And though he knows there is truly no control, it is an illusion for comfort only, he feels oddly grounded by it, that he can open up and be vulnerable to something else.

He bends down, his tousled bed hair falls into Clint’s face and he plants kisses on his eyes.   They are what Buck noticed first, expressive eyes and also expressive fingers that clench and pluck tightly at the sheets.  He finds his courage.   Lingers, lips pressing a wet line from a muscled chest down to the lowest part of Clint’s stomach.   Lets his eyes close when they brush against a straining cock.   Clint is just as hard as he.  His blood is pounding and his heart is singing because this is oh so arousing and he is not sure what is enticing more:  the gorgeous sight below or the thought that this just might be the first of many times, not the last.  He knows he could easily get addicted to this, to the delicate hesitations in Clint's breathing, the faintest gasps that he fails to hold.  Unlike Buck he is not a noisy lover.  The poise that makes him an expert archer is wound through every bone and sinew.  Was not the accuracy of the arrow’s release all about breath control?   It means in practice Buck will take the greatest delight in getting him to react. 

Several anxious minutes are lost to explanation and tutelage.  It’s dizzying and when at last all is ready he slides a hand along Clint’s thigh, feels the smooth skin that shivers just slightly at his touch.  Clint’s eyes are glittering, they and the bare twitch are the only sign of his anticipation.  

Bucky ducks his head and with a swift kiss to share, he steadies himself, sinks in and finds a world so hot and tight that it engulfs his whole being in steady fire. He could not have imagined how this would feel.   His heart is too big, it pounds, wilder than before, faster and harder with every thrust, with every kiss, with every incoherent moan.    One of Clint's hands braces at his shoulder, the other touches his own weeping cock.  His face is furrowed in concentration, a light in the ocean eyes and it’s all too much.  Skin presses against skin.  Lips and teeth clash fervently.   He hears himself cry out, raw and primal, and then Clint too is shuddering, gasping, keening at the last. 

The sound sets his soul alight.   He bends down, lays himself on Clint’s still heaving chest to ease his arm and presses their foreheads together, brushes his dark forelock against blond sweaty spikes.   Marvels at the glint of crystal blue when its Clint’s turn to blink furiously and turn away.

“Welcome home.”

A grateful sigh brushes against his cheek.

“Welcome home.” 

 

\------------------------------------------

  

Breakfast is a leisurely affair.    Well technically it’s brunch.  It is almost noon.  Clint has on one of Bucky’s shirts.  Bucky has on almost nothing at all, just his boxers, because he is the one runs hot at night and the morning has dawned warm again.  

Clint complains, quite seriously, about the miniscule serving size of his expresso machine but is enraptured by the breakfast stack.  Feeding him the layered wedges of pancetta and crepe and peach has some how morphed into catching all the syrup drips.  They  kiss, slow and languidly,  lips sliding stickily in delight, ignoring the fork as it clatters to the floor.   

Ignoring the odd squeak that drifts into the dining room.

 “Hi Dad! I’ve a free hour for lun……”   

Until it gets louder and turns into a full on startled shriek. 

“Oh jeez… Incoming.”   Clint’s warning comes a bit too late.    

Kelsey stands in the doorway, eyes round and wide in shock.   She has on her school uniform and a pair of soccer cleats tossed across her back. 

 “Uh,,, Dad?  Clint?” 

The two men jump apart in shock.  Oh shit.  Buck has totally forgotten about his offer to host lunch on the off weeks.   

“Uhh..uh.  Hi Kels.” He awkwardly fumbles dragging his chair farther back.  “Did you bring your lunch?”   _Of course she didn’t you idiot.  She was expecting to have lunch with you._ Buck tries to pull his hand away but Clint won’t let it  go. 

“Hi Kelsey.”  Clint grins with a reasonable fascimile of sane.  “Sorry we messed up your day.” 

“No worries.  This looks yummy.”  Kelsey reaches for one of the stacks, picks it up, syrup dripping down her arm. 

The motion of food and new arrival have woken Lucky up.  He squeezes out from the beneath Clint’s chair and pokes a cold nose into Kelsey’s knee.  “Hey boy.”  The dog gets a welcoming pat, the dad gets a sudden beaming grin. 

“Are you guys dating now?” 

Clint has to pause and thump Bucky hard on the back.  And answer for him when he can’t bring himself to speak.  “Umm.. yeah.  Kind of.  Well.  Actually for sure.”     

 “Awesome!”  The first stack has vanished, three quarters for the girl and one quarter for the dog.   Kelsey grabs another stack  before  walking through to the kitchen.  Lucky’s tail thumps hollowly on the floor.  The fridge door chimes as it is opens up. 

That’s it?  She’s not upset?  Bucky is sitting with his mouth open.  Staring at his twelve-year old who sounds suddenly more like twenty-five.   How can any of this be normal in the circumstance?

Kelsey comes back, pops open top of a yogurt tube and blithely ignores shock upon his face.    “Clint can I take Lucky to the park?  I’ve got an hour before I need to be back for French.”   

“Uh… sure kiddo.  Anything you like.”

Anything?  Nice.  Bucky glares.  Now Mr. smooth Secret Agent is advertising how much they want to be alone.  But but… don’t they need to talk??

“Great. Come on boy.”  Kelsey whistles and grabs the purple leash from the bench.  “See you in an hour.” 

“Bye.”   The screen door squeaks and slams.  Kelsey and Lucky are gone before Bucky can react.     

He turns to Clint.  His partner is grinning wickedly.  Bucky is certainly not.  He upset that she’s not upset but is not entirely sure why that should be.  “She’s not freaked out?!  She’s not objecting.  Or asking any questions..” He’s sputtering, words falling over themselves in shock. 

“Nope.  Let her go.”  Clint shakes his head over the rim of his coffee cup.  “She’s a smart girl.  Just like her Dad.  You’ll have lots of time to talk..  ” 

Well maybe so.. but what if she has a delayed reaction?  What if she’s upset at school?  Or says something to Nat before he gets the chance?  Bucky can’t think of a single thing to say that makes as much sense as the straight out fact that his little girl is ok with this.       

He’s still staring at the empty hallway in something akin to shock when an empty cup is set carefully on the table.  A finger with a  callused pad slowly turns his chin.  

“We have an hour Buck.  Where were we?”  

_Oh._

Maybe he’d better not oil that screen door after all.

\----------------

The bees are buzzing and the grass is littered by the first yellow leaves to fall as Kelsey settles down in the shade of a spreading linden tree. 

It’s warm:  the perfect, not-too-hot, waning sun has heated the air.  It smells of apple: the south end of Beach Park is lined with old knarled trees, the community gardeners have picked them clean but a sweet scent still wafts from the windfalls rotting in grass. 

Lucky has his nose to the breeze, wuffling steadily, winding his way unerringly back to her. 

Apple may be good.  But pepperoni's better.

Kelsey pulls the treat out of the front pocket of her backpack.  Opens the plastic and picks out a handful of spicy slices.  Lucky’s tail wags like a metronome but otherwise he stands quite still.  This is awesome.  An unexpected extra treat.  He loves it when extra pepperoni appears.

” Here Lucky.”  Kelsey pulls her laden hand around in a circle.  Lucky follows--scribes a perfect ring- before sitting down and licking hopefully at greasy fingers.  He does not take a bite.  He’s too well mannered to take his prize without permission.   

“Good boy..”   He cocks his head and whines.  “Go ahead.”    

One by one the pepperoni slices disappear.  Lucky burps, flops down and huffs out a great meaty sigh. He’s not tired, he could do this all day (he’s middle-aged, not old and an agent always keeps in trim) but like most soldiers he does know when to take a break.      

Kelsey bends and kisses the blond head,  pats lightly at his flank.   “Good dog.”   

He rubs a paw across his nose. Of course he is.  And thankfully this makes up for being ignored the night before.  

Kelsey lays down on her stomach and pulls out her phone, fingers flying across the screen.  There are plans for the evening to be discussed.

_< You in goal tonight?>_

_<_ _Yup.  What time do we start? >_

<7:30>

 <K. Mum says she can drive>

<Awesome.  Dad’s busy>

Kelsey grins.  She can just picture Darcy wanting to know what’s up.  Her friend loves the latest news, is even keener than Edwinia for the gossip on the street.  Can she wait til they are together to share intelligence?   No.  That wouldn’t be fair. 

And she really wants to say something now.

 <Darce…>

<??>

<Mission accomplished.>

<:) :) :) >

 

Turns out a master of fiction and a superhero never really stood a chance against a daughter and a dog.

**Author's Note:**

> The original inspiration for this fic comes from this post of a pizza thief. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I obviously do not own the rights to the game Avengers Academy. I have borrowed the concept of the game and mentioned Tinyco purely to further this story, for which I gain nothing material. Except enjoyment. Please don't bother suing me. 
> 
> Run, don't walk, over to SallyExactly's amazing At My Back series if you are a Clint and Natasha fan. 
> 
> Come visit me on Tumblr where I'm sian22redux and find shushup's great art at her blog: much-ado-about-mothing


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